


Zero Hundred Hours

by WeMightAswellBeStrangers



Series: Zero Hundred Hours [1]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Against the Odds, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Broken Mickey, Character Death, Chicago (City), Coma, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gallavich, Gallavich Week, Heartache, Heartbreak, Ian Gallagher and Mandy Milkovich are Best Friends, Jealous Ian Gallagher, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Mickey, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Sad Mickey, Shameless, Shameless Season 6, Shameless Smut, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 56,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeMightAswellBeStrangers/pseuds/WeMightAswellBeStrangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home.<br/><br/>Not what Mickey had always thought. Not the crappy, rundown house he had grown up sharing with Terry, Mandy, and his brothers. Not any house at all. Home was safety, home was love. Home was Ian.<br/><br/>And now that was over. Done. But how could Mickey leave the only home he had ever known?<br/><br/>~ A multi-chapter story following Mickey and Ian from the close of 5x12 on.</p><p>----------</p><p>Find me on tumblr <a href="http://mapswindsor.tumblr.com">here</a></p><p>Part One of the Zero Hundred Hours series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittleimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/gifts).



> HUGE thanks to the amazing [kittleimp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/pseuds/kittleimp) for being my beta partner in crime! All the i's are dotted and t's crossed because of you. 
> 
> The awesome DanaRenee101 just jumped on board too, so she can yell at me pre-posting as well as after I update ;-) Thank you for your eager eye, sass!
> 
> You two rock my ZHH world!
> 
> -

***0:00**

 

“This is it.” Mickey said quietly. “This is you breaking up with me.” His voice caught in his throat as he waited for Ian’s reply, already knowing what it would be. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Replied Ian. Such finality in his voice, Mickey wanted to sob at the conviction in it.

‘No!’ he screamed inside his confused, desperate brain, but all that came out was a whispered-“Really?”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting it, not really. Since their first kiss. Their first touch. Their first look of lust, all those years ago, as he angrily straddled Ian poised to attack with the crowbar. He knew all this couldn’t really be his for long. Still, that “Yeah” was a physical punch to the gut. A knife to the heart. It robbed the breath from his body as he choked out a broken “fuckk”, and met Ian’s eyes.

Time froze as they stared at each other, was this real? It couldn’t be real. _No_. And then:

“MICKEY!”

Like he was underwater, he heard the garbled scream of his name and he pulled himself away from Ian’s face with an almost physical wrench. The world sharpened into brutal focus as he recognized -“Is that Sammi?” striding angrily toward him with a-

“Fuck, she’s got a fucking gun!”

Gunshot exploded around them as she began firing aggressively, clumsily, at Mickey’s head.

Shit!! He ran, dodging the poorly aimed bullets, screaming insults as Sammi paced after him, firing away. They ran into the alley, police sirens erupting around them, trading insults, running, running, running for his life, for seconds, minutes, hours…he didn’t know. He was so focused on each step in front of him and his pounding heart, which started banging out “ _run, run run_ ” but morphed into “ _Ian, Ian, Ian_ ”, that it took him an age to realize there were no more sirens, no more gunshots, no more Sammi. The police must have caught up with her, crazy bitch.

The cold air whooshed in and out of his lungs, bringing him back to reality, but still he ran. “ _Ian, Ian, Ian,_ ” his heart banged, and it took him even longer to realize that he was whispering the name out loud along with his beating, banging heart.

 

———————

 

***7 Days, 2 hours, and 4 minutes**

 

7 days, 2 hours, 4 minutes and 35 seconds. 36. 37. 38. Had that really been all the time it had been since he last saw Mickey? It felt like forever. It felt like five minutes. It felt like too long. It felt like not long enough.

Ian turned in bed, rubbing his hands over his eyes in agitation. _Ag-i-ta-tion_. Such a funny word, really. What did it even mean? Did it mean love? Love, and heartbreak, burning, desperation, calm, mania, devastation, truth, desperation? No, that’s what ‘Ian’ meant. If there was a dictionary for names, he was pretty sure he could look up his and see all of these words next to it. Or maybe just ‘fucked-up’. That could work too.

 _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_. Mickey and Ian. Gallagher and Milkovich. Mickey. _MICKEY_! If he screamed it loud enough in his fucked-up brain, would Mickey hear? He always thought he could, but maybe the other thoughts sprinting through his head alongside it, piling on top of the keening name rumbling underneath everything else drowned it out.

He did the right thing. Right? _He did_.

He couldn’t take the meds, couldn’t live in that depressed fog of an existence, anymore than he could take breaking Mickey’s heart one more fucking time, seeing that look in his eyes. He couldn’t be what Mickey wanted. He couldn’t do, speak, act the way Mickey needed- he was barely making it through each day with his own heart in tact. He couldn’t make Mickey stay on this fucking roller coaster with him for one more second. There was no freaking safety belt. They were both likely to crash and burn at any passing second, but still-

_Mickey, Mickey, Mickey- Where are you?_

 

—————

 

***13 Days, 7 hours and 24 minutes**

 

“Wh-what?” Mickey jerked up in bed, hands thrust in front of him defensively, aggressively, ready for attack. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes in the dim, smoky light and lowered his fists as he took in the messy, empty room. He could have sworn he heard someone calling his name. He could have sworn he heard _Ian_  calling his name. Again. “Going fucking crazy.” He muttered angrily to himself as he pulled himself off the thin mattress and reached blindly down for his pack of smokes.

Two weeks- almost.

Time was creeping by at a maddeningly slow pace, but at least the ticking of the clock reminded him the world was still turning. He lit his cigarette and rattled off a deep, racking cough after his first inhalation- a painful reminder of the too-many-smoked packs of the past few days. He stood, stretched, and brushed his hands accidentally against his stiff morning wood. “Fuck!” It was almost painful, his need for release, but he wouldn’t do it. Every time he reached down to try and sate the aching, images of red, and freckles, and green eyes, and warmth seared across his brain in a burn more painful than the relentless pulsing in his groin.

“No.” He said, stubbing out his cigarette as he walked into the next room, turning the shower knob to cold and forcing his tired bones under the freezing rain.

He was just rinsing the suds out of his hair when he heard the bathroom door creak open and the sound of someone pissing into the bowl next to the tub. He looked around the curtain.

“Fuck Kenyatta! I’m fucking showering here!" The big man half-turned and shrugged at Mickey.

"What? Thought you’d enjoy the show.” He smirked as he zipped up his pants, walking out of the bathroom without flushing or washing his hands.

“Ugh.” Mickey turned back to the shower and switched off the faucet, shaking his head to get the water out. He grabbed a towel and slung it around his waist as he walked over to the sink. It was bizarre- being here with Kenyatta and Mandy. When he had started running two weeks ago, he had thought it had been to escape Sammi, but when he hadn’t stopped running three hours later he realized it was to get away from so much more. He counted the money in his pockets- $43, called his sister collect, and hopped on the next Greyhound over to Indiana.

She met him at the bus stop and hugged him for ten minutes straight, without saying a word. It was unnatural- this display of tactile affection from his sister. They loved each other but weren’t huggers- more likely to give each other a black eye than a kiss on the cheek, but it wasn’t long before he realized that if she let him go he would probably fall over, so he let her. He didn’t cry, but the steady warmth of her embrace made him aware that he was shaking, and had probably been for hours. It took three days for the shuddering to stop completely.

He followed her silently back to the shitty apartment she shared with Kenyatta, in the slums of Indiana that were only slightly better than the Southside neighborhood they grew up in. Mandy jabbered away incessantly about her new job, her new friends, Kenyatta and the life they shared together; she must have told him five times in as many minutes that he hadn’t hit her since they left Chicago, which just made Mickey more convinced than ever that the abuse was ongoing. Well, he was here now. He would protect his sister and send that fucker on his way. As soon as he stopped fucking shaking.

Despite it all, he had to admit Mandy seemed happy. Her hair was back to it’s natural light brown, her skirts were actually down to her knees for the first time in forever, and she had a bounce in her step. The only time he saw flashes of the old, down-trodden Mandy were the rare occasions Kenyatta was actually home and had a temper flare up, but he hadn’t been stupid enough to fully lose it since Mickey was back on the scene. Mickey kept an old corkscrew shoved into the back pocket of his jeans just in case.

He had spent the first few days moving silently between the couch, the futon in the small second bedroom (which was more of a closet), and the bathroom. For someone who asked no questions, his sister seemed to understand his state of mind completely. Finally, however, she had enough, and it was Mandy’s incessant nagging and gentle urging which pushed him out of the door on the fifth day, into the blinding sunlight and fresh, clean air of Indiana. The freezing wind whipped him back into consciousness, and he staggered around like a drunker-than-usual Frank Gallagher as his sister led him by the hand up and down the streets of her new neighborhood.

Each day they ventured a little further, and he began to feel less like an invalid. Not like his old self, never that, but like a new, hollower Mickey who could at least keep up the pretense of being a functioning member of society. He spent the days while his sister was out working at the grocery store watching movie after movie, chain smoking cigarettes and downing beers by the case, then the evenings huddled around the kitchen table with Mandy, laughing at memories of their fucked up childhood, sharing stories of people from the Southside, talking about everybody and everything- _except Ian_.

Kenyatta was rarely home. Neither of them knew where he was and Mickey didn’t particularly care- if Mandy did she didn’t let on. They both embraced this new, shared fragile peace in true Milkovich fashion- cursing like sailors, threatening each other with a punch here and there, and fighting in their old, comforting way every time the conversation got a little too personal, a little too close for comfort.

It was only in those final minutes before bed, when they were stubbing out the last cigarettes and shutting off the lights, when Mandy would turn quietly to him and look at him steadily as if asking “ _is it time_?”, that Mickey would panic, and answer frantically “ _not yet! not yet!_ ” without saying a word, that the walls threatened to crumble and Mickey felt like he could blow away like dust in the wind if they moved another step closer to the truth he was trying to avoid.

And now, here he was.

Showering. Getting ready for an interview at fucking Green Morning Groceries with Mandy that his sister had set up for him. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was time to start paying his way if he was going to stay, and he was- at least for now. Besides, these days without the distraction of Mandy were getting a little too fucking long. Red was creeping in at the corners of his consciousness. When he closed his eyes he saw freckles on the back of his eyelids like stars in the night sky. And he remembered that his heart was fucking broken. _Ian._

 **No**.

He had to keep moving, or he would bleed out. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled grimly. “Time to fucking go.”


	2. A New Normal

***29 days, 12 hours, 14 minutes**

 

“Ian, come on! Time to get up!”

Fiona was tapping him lightly on his shoulder, then shoving him gently, then Ian felt the covers being pulled off him as the cool morning air settled roughly on his chilled skin, replacing the warmth of his comforter. “Noo…” he groaned, resisting the pull to consciousness. He had been dreaming of Mickey, a regular occurrence, but this was a good one. They had been back in the dugout, and there had been teeth, and tongues and laughter. Mickey bent over as Ian entered him from behind, groaning with joy and the best kind of pain- was it him or Mickey? Releasing guttural moans as they moved against each other, Ian's grip bruising his hips as they worked towards their ecstatic close, “I love you, I fucking l-"- and then, Fiona.

“Wake up Ian! Come on! I need to get to work and Liam’s still eating breakfast. Get up!”

Ian groaned and rolled over reluctantly. “Fine! I’m up, I’m up.” He sat up and blearily rubbed his eyes. His sister looked at him for a minute then settled down on the bed next to him.

“You’re sure you’re okay to do this? Really? I can call in sick again, Sean will understand.” She said softly.

“No, I’m fine. I told you Fiona. I can take care of him.” Fiona appraised him quietly, then nodded, as if in answer to a silent conversation she had been holding with herself.

“Okay then. My shift ends at 4. The numbers are on the fridge. V should be around next door and Debbie will be back at-“

“FI! I’ve got it. I’ve done this a thousand times before. Liam will be fine. I will be fine. Go to work.” He smiled at his sister as she bent over and kissed him roughly on his head.

“Okay, see you later. Thanks.” She hurried out of the door and he could hear her saying goodbye to Liam as he stretched noisily, yawning away the last remnants of sleepiness. Time to get up and start the day. This new arrangement with Liam was a good one. He wasn’t ready for work, still trying to muddle his way through his diagnosis, half in denial and half on his meds, but he could take care of Liam.

Now, during his off days, when the frantic mania or the overwhelming darkness threatened to overtake again, he could start to recognize the signs, and knew it was time to take his pills for a couple of days. To numb the extremities, and coast him through until the stormy waters settled once more, and he could break away from the Lithium, or Benzodiazepine, or whatever mood-stabilizing anti-depressants or anti-psychotics his doctor was putting him on that week. He was working hard, truly, trying each new regime she suggested, but right now they hadn’t found the right combo, and he couldn’t stomach living in the endless fog for longer than a few days at a time.

In the meantime, his time at home with his brother was calming. Liam was a sweet kid, innocent, happy just to have the attention of his brother, and Ian liked walking him to the park, throwing the ball around with him, and reading him stories as they cleaned up the house or roamed around the neighborhood together. Fi was finally trusting him alone with him for longer stretches of time without the occasional surprise ‘just happened to be passing by’ visit from V he was sure was pre-orchestrated, although he couldn’t blame her for the concern. Life wasn’t great, but it wasn’t awful, and that was a marked improvement.

“Hey little buddy! Whatcha’ eating?” He smiled at Liam as he wandered into the kitchen, tousling his brother’s hair lightly as he sat at the kitchen table. Ian grabbed a bowl and filled it with Cheerios as he moved over next to the little boy. “What shall we do today, huh? Want to go back to the park? Feed some ducks?”

The phone started to ring and he got up from the table, still talking. “Or maybe we could head over to the skate park? I know you liked riding those ramps in your stroller last week-“ Ian reached for the handset.

“Hello?” He paused for a second, his brow furrowed. "Hello?” He shrugged and hung up.

"No one there. Anyway, what were we saying? Oh right- skate park. Let’s finish breakfast and get moving little dude.”

 

—————

 

***1 month, 1 week, 2 days**

 

“Nice shot, Milkovich!” Mickey slammed his cue into the white ball a final time and watched in satisfaction as it rebounded off the eight ball, sending it careening into the back corner pocket.

“That’ll be $40 Sean, pay up man.” He put out his hand and the dark haired guy standing opposite him approached holding out four ten dollar bills.

“C’mon Mickey,” He grumbled with a smile on his face, “Double or nothing?”

Mandy reached around her brother and grabbed the money from the outstretched hand. “No way asshole! That’s what you said last time!” She said, bumping Sean’s shoulder affectionately.

“You can’t afford to keep doubling against my brother. Quit while you’re only $40 behind.” She grabbed the pool cues off the two men and returned them to the rack behind her, as Mickey drained the last of his beer.

“Only 40 bucks my ass- that’s the third time you’ve lost to me in the past two weeks.” He laughed at his friend as the three of them wandered over to the bar for another round, then caught himself. Friend? Milkovich’s didn’t have friends, and yet- he trusted Sean.

Ever since he started working at the grocery store with Mandy, and she had introduced this tall, good-looking guy with the long straight nose and piercing brown eyes as her best buddy, he had felt comfortable with him. He liked him, if by liked you meant Mickey didn’t want to punch his face in every two minutes as was his common reaction to new people, and they bonded over their hatred of Kenyatta. It didn’t hurt that Sean had taken the blame that first shift of Mickey’s when he had backed a cart he was collecting into a display and sent hundreds of soup cans rolling all over the shop floor.

“I don’t need your fucking help.” He had hissed in Sean’s ear, when the manager finally walked away after berating Sean in front of the staff and customers for a solid five minutes. Mickey wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but it wasn’t the benign smile and the “Whatever man.” that he got. Sean didn’t get mad. Sean didn’t fight. Sean didn’t even really curse, and Mickey didn’t know what to do with him, so he did nothing. He hung out alone or with his sister, and as his sister seemed to be with Sean most of the time at work, he was slowly absorbed into that friendship too. Whatever. His sister seemed to have a habit of buddying up with guys rather than girls- at least this one didn’t have red fucking hair.

 _Red_.

His breath caught in his throat. It had been a week and a half since he called, broken and desperate, alone in the apartment. He had had a dream they were back in the dugout, teeth and tongues and laughter and pain and ecstasy and ‘I love you’s, and it was amazing, but then it had turned black. Ian left. He was alone.

He felt Ian’s absence so strongly it was like he had died, and without even thinking consciously about it Mickey rose from his bed and walked to the phone, dialing, dialing, dialing- the number he knew by heart.

“Hello?”

 _It was him_. He wasn’t dead. He was still here.

“Hello?”

Mickey hung up the phone and let out a whoosh of air he wasn’t aware he had been holding.

He shook his head to bring himself back to the present, back to the bar, with his friend and his sister, back to Indiana, back to life without Ian. He downed the shot of vodka Mandy placed in front of him.

The call was a mistake, and it wouldn’t happen again.


	3. No Questions Asked

***2 months**

 

Mandy stood in the doorway, wiping her eyes as she watched Kenyatta load the last of his bags into the back of his beaten up station wagon and drive off.

“C’mon douchebag,” Mickey said, knocking her gently with his shoulder. “Let’s get fucking drunk.”

——— — —

Two hours later, Mandy was out of her mind. Mickey couldn’t stop laughing.

“I’ve never seen you this shitfaced, shitface!” He laughed loudly as she stumbled down the street next to him, trying to light a cigarette.

“Fuck you!” She slurred, giving up on lighting her own and grabbing Mickey’s half-smoked cigarette from his mouth. “You don’ fuckin’ understand. Ken…Ken…Kenyatta was my-“

“Your what? Your cheating, lying, abusive asshole of a boyfriend who hit you more often than he gave you rent money? The only thing I don’t understand is why you put up with his shit for so fucking long!” Mickey grabbed the smoke back from his sister and took another swig of beer.

He had woken in the early hours of the morning to the sounds of Kenyatta crashing noisily into the apartment, yelling for his sister to make him fucking pancakes. When Mandy hadn’t woken up in time he had thundered into the bedroom they shared, and the sounds of yelling had been replaced by muffled thumps and groans of pain as Mickey flipped off of the futon and groped blindly for the corkscrew. He had barely had to draw blood before Kenyatta had began shoving his crap into bags and whining about how they were both fucking crazy and he was out. The only thing Mickey was upset about was that he had folded so soon- he had been looking forward to beating the crap out of that deadbeat asshole for so long. Fucking pussy.

“You’re supposed to be a Milkovich, Mandy. What the fuck?”

Mandy stopped and turned to face him, trying her hardest to stand still and square off against her brother. Mickey belched and laughed harder as she swayed under the streetlight.

“Don’ fuckin’ talk to me about being a Milkovich, Mickey. Yo…you...you are the biggest fuckin’ pussy of us all. Wha' the fuck are you even doin' here? Asshole.”

“Apparently saving your ass, you idiot. Now come the fuck on, it’s cold as shit.” He pulled at his sister’s sleeve to get her moving, but she stayed put, apparently glued to the spot now she had finally found her footing.

“No Mickey, I’m fuckin' serious. Enough of the bullshit,” she paused to wipe drunkenly at her mouth. “Are you ever gonna fuckin’ talk to me about what happened with Ian? I still talk to Lip sometimes you know. I’m not a fucking idiot. I know he pulled some Monica shit and Sammi chased you with a fucking gun and you-“

Mickey was next to her, hand at her throat, slamming her back into the streetlight before either of them knew what was happening.

“Shut your fucking mouth about shit you know nothing about. You-“ Mandy’s eyes widened and she took a deep, rasping breath before gagging and throwing up violently over his hand.

“Shit!”

Mickey took a step back, not that it did much fucking good, as his sister retched the contents of her stomach over the sidewalk next to them. When she finally stilled he patted her back awkwardly and waited for her to straighten back up.

“I’m sorry Mickey, I-“

“Just fucking forget about it alright? Let’s get you the fuck home.” He lit them both a cigarette and handed one to his sister. “We’ve got fucking work in a few hours.”

 

—————

 

***2 months, 3 weeks, 5 days**

 

Some days Ian felt almost normal. When he was walking down the street and said hello to a neighbor, or was at the store buying a pack of smokes, or watching a movie with Fiona and the kids, he almost thought he imagined the whole diagnosis. Then other days he could be walking down the same street, in the same store, on the same couch and he felt like he had “Bi-polar”, or more accurately “fucking lunatic” branded across his forehead for all the world to see. Today was one of the latter.

“So how do you feel you are responding to this combination Ian? Any more bouts of mania? Depression?”

His doctor looked at him carefully across the ornate wooden desk. Ian stared blankly back at her. After a pause she continued.

“You know, none of these will take properly if you don’t start taking them regularly. You have to let your body adjust to a consistent treatment schedule.”

Ian shifted in his seat uncomfortably and leaned forward.

“I get it, you know? I do. But this shit- sorry, these meds make me feel worse than the other…symptoms. I feel like I’m walking around in a daze.”

Doctor Jennings smiled at him, not unsympathetically.

“I understand, I do. Really.” _No you don’t_. “But we have to figure out a combination that is manageable for you long term, and we can’t do that until we know how you respond to each medicine when you are taking it properly. A couple of days every other week is not what the instructions say on your prescriptions, is it?”

Ian looked down at his hands and exhaled. “No.” Shit.

“Okay then, here’s what I propose. You give me two straight weeks on your meds. Properly on your meds. That means twice a day, Every day, not just when you’re feeling shaky. If at the end of those two weeks you tell me they’re not working for you- fine. No more adjusting the doses or requests that you give it more time, we just move on to the next med combination, no questions asked. Deal?”

Ian looked up at her slowly and took a deep breath.

“No questions asked?”

“Not one, Ian.”

He reached over the table, took the bottle of pills from her hand and unscrewed the top, slowly placing the chalky white pill in his mouth and gulping it back with an involuntary shudder.

“Deal."


	4. Definitely Not Mickey

***4 months, 1 day**

 

Ian grunted as he shoved harder into the ass in front of him.

 _Man, this felt fucking good._ Four months without getting any- it was about fucking time. He pounded relentlessly into the guy whose waist he held gripped beneath him and groaned in appreciation as the man pushed back against him.

“Slow down, cowboy!” The stranger complained breathlessly.

“Shut the fuck up.” Ian replied as he increased his pace. It would be a whole lot fucking easier to pretend it was Mickey if this asswipe would keep his mouth shut. _Mickey_. Fuck yes.

He leaned over and grabbed the brown, almost black hair at the nape of the dude’s neck. Sam? Simon? Steven? Who knew- better, who the fuck cared? It had been his hair that had attracted Ian in the first place, when he walked into the club an hour earlier scanning for an easy pick up. His- Shane, Ian decided- build was not really like Mickey’s at all. He was tall, sinewy, built more like Ian himself than Mickey's shorter, stockier frame, but that fucking hair man. Slicked back on his head, so dark it was almost black, that did it. _Close enough_ , Ian decided, and an hour later, here they were, bent over, grunting away in the lot behind the club, finally getting Ian the release he had sought.

“Mickey…” He groaned aloud as he worked his cock into the other man’s ass.

“Hey! That’s not my name!” Shane protested, half turning around to give Ian a reproachful look and separating their bodies in the process. Ian growled, feral and painfully aroused, spitting on his hand and wiping the self-made lube on the mans entrance before slamming back into him for his final, glorious release.

“Ughh…Mick…yes.” He moaned, emptying his load and shuddering with the relief of it. Four fucking months. _Damn Mickey_.

He pulled out a minute later, not bothering to see if Shane was finished. As they zipped their pants the other man turned to him.

“So Red, want my number? I wouldn’t mind a repeat, somewhere more…comfortable maybe.”

Ian was already walking away, hands patting his pockets for his packet of smokes, stomach churning. It could’ve been the two beers he downed on the way to the club- alcohol mixed with his meds was always nauseating, but Ian knew the bile he could taste in the back of his throat was more than that.

“What the fuck ever man,” He mumbled to himself. “I’m only fucking human.” He stumbled down the street, not bothering to look where he was going, and was startled when he felt a hand grabbing him roughly from behind.

“Hey- I was fucking talking to you!” Shane, no he was sure it was Steven, shoved him aggressively on his shoulder. Ian started to laugh, he couldn’t help it. Why had he thought this guy bore any resemblance to Mickey? His eyes were dark brown, too close together, his lips too full, and in the streetlights his hair looked far lighter than in the dark of club.

“What the fuck are you laughing at? Did I say something funny?” He shoved Ian again, and Ian stumbled, a combination of the alcohol, his meds, and the exhaustion of the past couple of days catching up with him. This new combo wasn’t working for him- he’d have to tell his Doctor at his appointment tomorrow. Or was it today? Who the fuck knew? All he knew was he hadn’t slept in three days straight, and he was damn sure he needed a nap now.

Shane grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to face him. _Definitely not Mickey_. There was no warmth here, no teasing look of affection or resigned look of love, just aggression, and hatred.

“Don’t fucking laugh at me, you dick.” Ian drunkenly swung at the man, losing his footing as Shane quickly let go of his lapels to return the punch, and stumbled back into the path of an incoming car.

He heard the screech of brakes, felt a solid thump that radiated from the tips of his toes to the last hair on his head, saw Mickey’s face in front of him- _at last, Mick, at last!_ \- and then, nothing.

 

—————

 

***4 months, three days**

 

“Hey asshole, that’s my room! Nice fucking try.” Mandy bumped past her brother, her arms full of boxes, as he laughed and dive bombed around her on to the bed.

“Finders keepers, loser.” She gave him a pitiful glare as she dumped the box on the floor in front of her stubbornly and left the room to gather more of her belongings from the U-Haul they had rented.

“Get off your ass, we’re paying for this thing by the hour.”

“Not my problem.” Mickey exhaled a puff of smoke as he put his hands behind the back of his head. “You’re the one with all the shit. I have one bag of fucking clothes- I’m moved, bitch!”

Mandy gave him an exasperated look as Sean rounded the corner with another box in his hands.

“Hey Mand, do you really have a box labeled ‘Bedroom costumes’? What the heck is a bedroom costume?!” He laughed, setting it down. “Mickey, put that out, I told you. No smoking in here- porch or deck only.” Mickey rolled his eyes and stubbed out the cigarette with a resentful huff as he sat up on the bed.

“You’ll get over that soon enough. Sending me out on to the porch every five fucking minutes. You assholes will never see me.”

“Well maybe that’s the plan, dickwad.” Mandy grumbled, coming back into the room. “Now get off your ass!”

Mickey sighed resentfully and slowly climbed off the bed, following the two of them back out to the truck. This could work, as long as Mandy backed off with the bullshit room claiming and Sean realized that Mickey would be smoking indoors within the week.

It was a shock to realize that the pitiful contributions Kenyatta had offered up had actually made a difference to them making their rent check every month. Even with the extra shifts Mickey had started pulling at The Twilight Room working security in addition to the store, they had struggled to cover their overheads, so when Sean had announced a couple of weeks before that his roommates were graduating college and heading back to Wisconsin and New Jersey or wherever the fuck they were from, it hadn’t taken the three of them long to figure out it was time to make this relationship a co-habitable one.

Mickey hauled a box marked ‘shoes’- _who the fuck needed a box this big just for fucking shoes?_ \- off the truck and meandered back towards the house. He paused as he approached the door and appraised his new home- not much, but not bad. Certainly better than the shithole apartment they just moved out of. It was a three bedroom, one bath, tall, skinny white-stucco house, shouldered on either side by four identical tall, skinny, white-stuccoed fucking houses. A small, crappy yard out front that Sean’s parents had had the good sense to concrete over- he was sure as shit not going to mow the grass, and a decent neighborhood that you could walk out at night in with only a mean look on your face and a tough guy attitude in your pocket for protection- not the gun he was used to.

“How the fuck did you score this?” Mandy asked, pleased, when Sean gave them the grand tour a week earlier.

"My parents bought it as an investment for while I’m in college.” He shrugged nonchalantly, in that easy, open manner which still confused the hell out of Mickey. “I and whoever I score as roommates pay them rent, and it covers their mortgage payments. That’s why I work at the store when I’m not in class. Plus they don’t have to worry about figuring out hotel rooms whenever they come to visit.”

“Sure, right, makes perfect fucking sense.” Mickey had muttered under his breath. Where the fuck did this guy come from, that this was a normal scenario for him? Parents who cared enough to buy a fucking house in a decent area for their kid, and actually came to visit voluntarily? Terry Mickovich’s idea of good parenting stretched as far as a half hour visit every six months Mickey was in Juvie, and that was only after a solid campaign of nagging from Mandy, he knew it.

This was probably the nicest place Mickey would ever call home, and he was determined to enjoy it. Which is why no freaking way was Mandy getting the room with the double bed and view of the park. View of the fucking park, for fuck’s sake! He walked into his room- HIS- and saw his sister sitting on the bed, staring frozen at her phone.

“I’m serious Mandy, get the fuck out. This is my room.” He said, dumping the box in the doorway. When she didn’t respond he kicked the ridiculously sized box of shoes loudly and said- “Hello? Earth to Mandy. Get the fuck out. I bought your fucking shoes in.”

She slowly looked up from her phone, eyes wide, all the color drained from her face. Instantly Mickey’s heart seized with panic and a cold dread washed over him.

“What is it?”

Mandy paused dully, taking a deep breath before she answered.

“Ian.”


	5. The Longest Ride

***4 months, 4 days**

 

Mickey couldn’t stop the nervous drumming of his fingers against his knees as the engine of the bus rumbled beneath him.

“Mickey, stop. You’re driving me fucking crazy.” Mandy reached out a hand to grab her brother’s and still the motion. He jumped in surprise, he thought she had been asleep.

“How much longer 'til we hit Chicago?” She glanced down at her phone, the light illuminating her pale face as she checked the display in the dark of the bus.

“We get in around 2 a.m., so about another 35 minutes.”

35 minutes, damn. That felt like a lifetime.

“And Lip is meeting us at the bus shelter?”

“That’s what he said.” Mandy replied, sniffing and turning her head back to lay it on the glass of the dirty window. Mickey began tapping his foot in agitation- the need for movement too overwhelming. _Fuck. Fuck Ian!_ His world hadn’t stop spinning since Mandy had given him the news in a shaky, quiet voice. Ian. Hit by a car. In a coma. Multiple injuries.

“What else do you know? Is he going to be okay? What happened?” Mickey responded after a second of shocked silence, his voice climbing to a desperate shout.

“That’s it! That’s all Lip said!” Mandy yelled back, fear running through her voice, darkening her eyes.

There had been no discussion after that, both of them grabbing wallets, phones, shoes, piling into Sean’s car, Mandy checking the Greyhound schedule on her phone as they drove to the shelter in a panicked silence. Then waiting, waiting, waiting for the next Chicago-bound bus, jumping turnstiles and pushing past the line of people ready to board as if being the first ones on would get them there faster. The calls of protest were quickly hushed when Mickey turned to them, wild fire burning in his eyes. And then, this. The agonizing drive. The endless, suffocating, agonizing drive Mickey thought he would never make again, back to Chicago. _Home_.

“Which hospital did you say he was in again?”

Mandy turned to him, gazing at him steadily. He had already asked her this three times. “South Shore.” She replied, then shifted closer to the window, bunching up her sweater under her head in a makeshift pillow. “Go to sleep Mickey. It’s going to be a long day.”

Mickey didn’t respond. Sleep wasn’t happening for him tonight. He resumed the nervous drumming on his knee. _I’m coming, Ian._

 

—————

 

“Don’t be thrown when you see him,” Lip said calmly an hour later, as he drove them through the black streets of Chicago. “There are a lot of wires, drips that sort of thing. And he got pretty banged up, he looks…different.” Mickey turned to glare at him.

“No shit, Sherlock. He got hit by a fucking car! I’m not expecting him to be in his fucking Sunday best.” He shot back angrily. Mandy leaned forward from the back seat and placed a restraining hand on her brother’s arm.

“Mickey-“ She cautioned, a warning tone in her quiet-for-once voice. Lip glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“It’s okay Mandy, I get it.” The trio settled into a tense silence as they pulled off the highway, Mickey spying the first sign for the hospital he had seen. He let out a breath of air. Ian. He couldn’t believe he was going to see him again. He couldn’t believe he was going to see him again like _this_. They pulled up at the Emergency Room entrance and Lip put on his hazards.

“I’m going to go park. Figured you would want to go on ahead. They won’t let you in now, you know that right? Visiting hours ended hours ago. But I know you want to try.”

“The fuck they won’t let me in.” Mickey retorted stonily, grabbing his jacket from the back seat. Mandy started to edge out of her seat, moving as if to follow her brother. This time it was Lip who held out the restraining hand.

“Give him a minute Mandy. We’ll be in right behind him.”

Mickey didn’t look back as he sprinted towards the bright, artificial glare of the hospital entrance, calling out “I.C.U?” to the first guard he saw, running up the three flights of stairs and pushing through the heavy metal door that led to Ian.

 

—————

 

***4 months, 4 days**

 

_Beeping._

_Voices._

_Sunlight._

_Quiet._

_Warmth._

“We love you Ian, hang in there.”

_Quiet._

_Cold, so cold._

_Beeping._

“Come on Ian, wake up man.”

_Beeping._

_Sunlight._

_Quiet._

_Pain._

“Multiple fractions…head trauma…”

_Quiet._

_Quiet._

_Quiet._

_Quiet._

“Ian? I’m here.”

 

**_Mickey._ **


	6. I'm Trying, Mick

***4 months, 1 week, 4 days**

 

“You’re here again?” Fiona asked, pacing into the room, her arms full of bags and a sleeping Liam. Mickey grunted in response, and she eyed him warily.

“You don’t have to be here round the clock you know, we can keep an eye on him. Let you know if anything changes.”  She leaned around where Mickey had Ian’s hand gripped tightly in his own, and kissed her immobile brother on his ruffled hair. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Mickey muttered in reply. “And I’m not here round the clock. These bitches will only let me in during visiting hours.” He said gruffly, glaring at the stern-faced nurse busy re-connecting Ian’s I.V. to a fresh bag on the other side of the bed.

“Rules are rules, Mr Milkovich.” She replied, finishing the change and looking at Fiona. “No improvement I’m afraid.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be polite you know.” Fiona said quietly to Mickey as the nurse bustled out of the room and the eldest Gallagher settled into a chair beside Mickey. “She’s only doing her job.”

“I know.” Mickey mumbled. “I just-“ He trailed off, starting in surprise as he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I get it.” The two sat together in silence, listening to the beeping of machines and Liam’s slow, steady breathing as he slept bundled in Fiona’s arms.  Mickey kept his eyes locked on Ian’s face. Ian. Wake up Ian, come on!

When he had burst into the I.C.U a week before he had been incoherent with desperation and urgency, ready to fight any doctor or nurse or guard who tried to keep him from his target, but had slipped through the doors unnoticed, the night nurse away from her desk as he raced down the hallway, checking name plates on the doors until he finally found ‘Gallagher’ scrawled on the second to last room. Only then had he paused for a split second, unsure and afraid, before setting his chin and easing the door open quietly.

_Ian._

He lay on the bed, looking smaller and more vulnerable than Mickey ever imagined possible, his long frame under a standard issue blue hospital blanket and a mess of wires and I.V’s around him. Mickey approached the bed slowly, his feet seemingly sinking in quicksand at every step, and his heart pounding more loudly than the beeping machine relentlessly signaling the beat of Ian’s beautiful heart. As he took in the bruise on his forehead, the gash over his left eye, the bulky, white casts encasing Ian’s right arm and leg, he let out a shaky breath. He looked so fragile, so delicate, Mickey couldn’t get his head around it.

The balance of power between them had always been swung in Ian’s favor. In the beginning, when he was just Mandy’s sidekick, boyfriend- _ha_! Mickey had been the strong one, the thug. Then the day of the crowbar, the day Ian had literally and figuratively forced his way into Mickey’s fucked up world, the balance had shifted to Ian without him even realizing it. That day Mickey’s world had changed, and he became the weak one for the first time in his life. Ian didn’t know it- had never known it probably, but from that point on he had been in control.

Through it all- the not-so-casual hook-ups, Svetlana, his marriage, Ian’s enlisting, Yevgeny, Terry; Ian had held all the power in their relationship. Even with Ian’s diagnosis, when it seemed to all the world that Mickey was the one holding it all together, that Mickey was the one with the power to walk away, he didn’t- not really. Ian was the first truly good thing in his life, and Mickey didn’t know how to walk away from that, let alone control it, so he didn’t. He waited for the day to come when Ian would realize he was better off without a Milkovich in his life, and he had.

With a shaking breath, he leaned over the still figure lying comatose on the bed.

“Ian? I’m here.”

Fiona kicked him lightly on the shin. “Wha- what?” He stuttered out of his reverie and turned to look at her.

“I said, Mandy make it back to Indiana okay?” His sister had caught the bus back down South a couple of days before, once they realized there was not really much good either of them could do by staying.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me?” She asked as she hugged him roughly at the bus station. He had shaken his head no, and she understood. They all understood. He couldn’t leave. “Okay. I told Paul we had a family emergency, hopefully that will be enough to keep your job open until…” She trailed off. “Until Ian wakes up and you make it back.” She finished resolutely. He had waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah.” He replied to Fiona.

“She said you’re doing good out there. Got a nice place to live, steady work. Sounds like you’re right where you should be.”

Fiona said the words lightly, but Mickey caught the edge underneath them. He knew his presence here was a mixed bag for the Gallaghers. On one hand they appreciated someone being here so constantly, as they had all reluctantly returned to work, school, the mundanities of everyday life that required their attention, but on the other hand- they knew Ian had told Mickey to leave all those months ago. How much they knew he wasn’t sure, but they knew enough to question whether it was the right thing for Ian to have him here if- w _hen_ \- he finally woke up.

Mickey wasn’t stupid. He knew from the vague updates Lip, Debbie, and even Fiona had let slip, that Ian was doing better. Finally beginning to accept his diagnosis, working the desk at the fucking ROTC part time, figuring out his meds at regular consults with his doctor. Better- _without Mickey_. He got it. Of course he was better without Mickey. He wasn’t surprised, just grateful for the news, sucking up every drop of information they let slip like he was out in the fucking desert and these pieces of knowledge were his only source of water. He would leave when Ian started improving, but only when Ian started improving. Until then- fuck them all. He wasn’t going fucking anywhere.

“I like it there.” Mickey admitted, surprising himself. “Change of fucking scenery, you know?”

Liam started squirming on Fiona’s lap and she stood, heaving the waking boy into a more comfortable position.

“I’m going to get him a juice box from the cafeteria. Want anything?” Mickey shook his head as they left the room, re-focusing his attention on to Ian’s still face. Fuck, he was beautiful. Even like this. Banged up, bruised, pale. Those freckles. That hair.

"Come on Ian, I need you." He whispered, almost silently, urgently. "Please don’t leave me like this."

 

—————

 

***4 months, 1 week, 4 days**

 

_Beeping_

_Warmth_

_Mickey_

_Quiet_

_Voices_

_Beeping_

“Come on Ian, I need you.”

_Mickey_

_Beeping_

"Please don’t leave me like this.”

_Mickey_

_I’m trying, Mick._


	7. No Guarantees

***4 months, 3 weeks**

 

They were cramped up in Ian’s tiny bed, arms and legs tangled around each other, as much for lack of space as the need to be as close to each other as possible. Mickey sometimes felt like they would crawl inside each other’s skin if possible, any breath of air between them felt like an invasion of their intimacy. Foreheads touching, chests pressed against each other, hands gripped tightly around the other’s back holding on for dear life, even during sleep.

Mickey felt Ian stir beneath him, and opened his eyes, feeling a slow, lazy smile spread across his face as he found those big fucking green eyes staring back at him.

“Green…” He mumbled sleepily, pulling Ian tighter into his embrace.

“Hmm?” Ian murmured, pushing back out of his hold, planting butterfly kisses over his nose, cheeks, and neck.

“Your eyes, they’re green today. Sometimes they’re hazel, sometimes they’re almost blue. Today they’re green.” Ian laughed softly, continuing his trail of kisses across Mickey’s chest, down his stomach.

“Never took you for a romantic, Mick.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey grumbled. “Not romantic, just acknowledging that even your fucking eyes can’t make up their damn mind about what color they want to be. As fucked up as-“ He gasped as Ian reached his stiffening cock under the blanket, taking it in his mouth- “the rest of you.” He ground out.

Mickey grasped the top of Ian’s head, threading his fingers through the fiery hair and pushing his hips up to meet the sucking mouth working under the covers.

“Dammit that feels fucking good.” He groaned, lost in the moment, the feeling. Ian slowly pulled off his iron-stiff cock and slid back up Mickey’s body so they were lying face to face.

“Turn over, Casanova.” He grinned, his own erection pressing hard against Mickey’s taut stomach. “We’ve got a few minutes before people start getting home. Let’s not waste them.”

_Home._

Such a strange word, Mickey thought distractedly, as he twisted his body around to meet Ian’s. Not what he had always thought. Not the crappy, rundown house he had grown up sharing with Terry, Mandy, and his brothers. Not any house at all. Home was safety, home was love. As his boyfriend pushed into him from behind he rubbed the dampness out of his eyes and gave himself over to the tidal wave of feeling rushing through his body, the tingling in his toes and the throbbing of need which overwhelmed all coherent thought except for one: _Ian was home._ Mickey had made it at last.

 

—————

 

Mickey jerked awake, disorientated and confused, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the empty hospital room, quiet except for the beeping of machines and his own pounding heart. _Ian!_ He thought frantically, hopefully, rubbing at his eyes as he took in the still, comatose figure in front of him with resignation.

Dammit. It had felt so fucking real. No wonder- that wasn’t a dream, not really. That was a memory, one he had tucked away into the deepest, darkest part of his mind the day Ian had given him that final “Yeah”, the day Mickey found himself homeless once a-fucking-gain.

He rubbed his eyes again, _fuck_ \- was he fucking crying? “Pussy.” He snarled at himself, swiping aggressively at the dampness and shaking his head fiercely. But damn, these past few weeks had been the hardest of his life. Harder than his shit show of a wedding to Svetlana, harder than all of the brutal beatings from Terry over the years, harder even than Ian telling him to go, because with all of those at least he had had some sort of fucking control.

He chose to keep Ian alive by doing what his Dad ordered and marrying Svet. He chose to stay and take his Dad’s abuse, even if it was out of fear. And he chose to hear that “Yeah.” from Ian that he knew was coming, because when Ian called he came fucking running- he would never have left his side until Ian told him to, and he had always known it was just a matter of time. What he did not choose was this; Ian lying unresponsive in a fucking bed with tubes and wires going in and out of every orifice for weeks on end with no guarantee he would wake up.

“Typically we like to see improvement within the first two to four weeks.” The doctor had explained quietly to Lip and Fiona with Mickey in close earshot when making the morning rounds earlier that day. “After that…chances of full recovery decrease significantly.”

“What can we do?” Asked Fiona stridently, the false confidence in her voice betrayed by the tremor of fear underneath it.

“You’re doing it. Keep talking to him, engaging with him. Let him feel you holding his hand-“ He paused as he glanced over to where Mickey still held fast to Ian’s fingers in the iron grip that had been there for weeks now. “Interact with him as you would normally. There’s little scientific research proving that it helps, but in my experience the patients with the most regular familial interaction have the best recovery rates.”

After he had left Lip had pulled a reluctant Mickey out of the room and into the hallway, the furthest Mickey would go as he kept a fierce watch through the pane of glass in the door of Fiona taking his place and sliding her hand into Ian’s.

“They caught the asshole who hit him- his trial starts in two weeks.” Lip said quietly to Mickey, and Mickey nodded savagely, turning to go back into the room. Lip caught his arm; “Wait, there’s more.”

Mickey shook him off. “What?” He said aggressively.

“Ian was... with a guy, the night that it happened.”

“What? What guy?”

“Just some random douche from the club. Shane something, he’s a regular.” Mickey stared at him impatiently. It should matter more than it did, he knew that on some level, but all he could think about was getting back inside to Ian. “It seems they…hooked up, then Ian did something to piss him off. They were outside fighting when it happened. The guy hit him or something, and Ian fell into the road.”

“So they’ll prosecute him too, so fucking what? Lock all the fucking bastards up.”

“No,” said Lip quietly. “They won’t. They’re focusing on the hit and run. This asshole gets to walk away scot free. Do you get what I’m saying Mickey? They don’t care about him. He won’t face any kind of retribution for…” He gestured towards Ian’s room. “This.”

Mickey turned away from the door, looking at Lip for the first time with fire blazing in his eyes. He got it.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Mickey was pulled back to the present by the night nurse entering the room. She leaned over Ian, checking his vitals, adjusting some knobs on the million fucking machines around Ian’s bed, and gave Mickey a small smile. Around the end of the second week they had stopped trying to get Mickey to leave at the end of visitation hours. He would only sneak back in 30 minutes or so later, and they would find him sometime in the middle of the night, hunched over Ian’s bedside, snoring softly, hand gripped in hand. It wasn’t worth the hassle for any of them to try and make him leave again, so he stayed, and they let it go, some of the kinder nurses even slipping him the odd pot of jello or tuna sandwich when they made the mealtime rounds. Mickey appreciated it but didn’t have much of a fucking appetite. If there was food, he ate it, if there wasn’t, he went without.

After she left the room descended into silence once again. Mickey pulled his hand out of Ian’s, stretching up and cracking his back into place. He looked at Ian’s face, calm and still, in the rays of moonlight slipping through the blinds.

“I’m getting really fucking tired of this shit, Gallagher.” No response. _Of course._ “I’m serious. Do you even fucking hear me? This is getting old. I’m getting fucking old, you shit. You’re lying there, like a fucking baby, and I feel like a fucking geriatric. Stop being so fucking selfish you prick!” For the first time in almost a month, Mickey felt rage bubbling up inside of him. The exhausting weeks of heartache and panic, fear and uncertainty, were suddenly replaced by a fiery resentment so strong he wanted to reach out and shake the fucker awake. “I was doing well, you asshole! I had a job, and a place, and a fucking life away from you! I even fucking had friends! And then you had to pull this shit and here I am again, right back to square fucking one. Waiting on your ass.” He paused and wiped his mouth angrily, lowering his voice. “That’s it Ian, enough. Pack this shit in. Time to wake up asswipe. The world won’t revolve around you forever. Wake. The. Fuck. Up.”

He paused his tirade- waiting for Ian to open his eyes, twitch, fucking anything, to acknowledge Mickey.

Nothing.

Mickey slumped back in the chair, more exhausted than ever from his outburst. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and scrolled through the numbers until he found the one he was looking for.

“Lip? I’m going to need you to come to the hospital.” Pause, and a resentful look at Ian. “No, nothing’s fucking changed. He’s fine.” Mickey laughed harshly at his own words. “I need to leave for a while, take care of something. Come and sit with your fucking brother while I’m gone.”

 

—————

 

***4 months, 3 weeks, 1 day**

 

_Beeping_

_Quiet_

_Mickey?_

_Quiet_

_Beeping_

_Mickey?_

Ian peeled back his eyelids in agonizing slowness, so heavy they felt weighed down with lead. He licked his dry, parched lips and croaked;

“Mickey?”

—————


	8. A View Of The Park

***4 months, 3 weeks, 6 days**

 

Mickey rested his forehead on the window and stared out at the kids playing ball on the park beneath him. Park fucking view. Had that really meant so much to him only a month before? He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the idiocy of it.

“Hey,” Mandy said softly from the doorway. “Sean and I are going to shoot a couple of rounds of pool. Want to come?” she asked hopefully.

“Nah.” Mickey replied gruffly. “I’ve got some stuff to do here. Unpacking and shit.” He gestured vaguely at the back pack that had been sitting, untouched, at the foot of his bed, since his arrival at home four days earlier. Home. Indiana.

“C’mon Mickey, it’ll be fun!” Sean appeared behind his sister in the doorway, an open smile on his face.

“I said fucking no, alright?” Mickey snapped, turning from the window to catch them exchanging worried looks. “Look, I just, I’m not, I mean-“

“No, we get it. No worries Mickey. If you change your mind we’ll be at the Eight Ball.” Sean pulled a reluctant Mandy away from the doorway, and Mickey turned back to the window as he heard the front door close behind them.

He exhaled against the window, and watched his breath fog up a perfectly formed ‘O’ next to where his mouth had been. He lifted his hand and traced ‘Fuck u’ on the glass with his bruised fingers. Mickey cracked his knuckles painfully, re-opening the partially healed cuts that dotted across the back of his hand. “Shit.” He muttered quietly, rubbing his fingers over the blood.

Despite the pain, Mickey didn’t regret a single pang of discomfort. When he had tracked down the asshole at the club six days before, easy to do when you were a Milkovich and people knew better than not to give you the answers you were looking for, it had taken all of Mickey’s resolve not to destroy him right there in the middle of the fucking dance floor. Instead he had ground up aggressively against him, looking at him suggestively from under his eyelids, inviting him outside to the back of the club for some ‘private time’. Shane, the dick, hadn’t thought twice. Hadn’t looked for a second like the guilty asshole who had put Ian in a coma for the past three weeks straight. No sign of remorse or conscience at all, and that had made each punch into his fucking face all the sweeter.

He'd whaled on him for ten minutes straight, grunting “Ian" with each slam of his fist. Blood sprayed everywhere, on Shane, on Mickey, on the garbage can he held the taller man up against, and Mickey had never felt such satisfaction as when he heard the definitive crack of ribs when he landed the final kick to the man’s chest. He left him there, huddled in a ball wheezing and crying, bunched up against the garbage can like the trash he was. Blood and sweat were splattered on the ground around him and hell, Mickey had even crunched a tooth under foot as he walked away, a spring in his step that had been missing for months.

It was only after he had been walking the first couple of miles back to the hospital that he noticed the buzzing of his phone in his back jeans pocket. He grabbed it quickly, and was panicked to see five missed calls from Lip. Shit. _Shit_! He dialed him back, but got no answer. He picked up his pace to a sprint and made it back to the hospital in record time. _I’m coming Ian! Fuck! I’m coming._

He burst into the I.C.U., fear and urgency etched across his face. His alarm sky-rocketted when he saw Fiona standing outside of Ian’s room at the end of the hallway, huddled over a notepad with a doctor and two of the night nurses. Tears streaked her face as she looked up at the sound of Mickey thundering towards them.

“Fiona! Fiona? What the fuck? Is Ian- is he okay? What happened?” He burst out, panic clear in his voice. Fiona walked towards him, hands outstretched.

“It’s okay! He’s okay, Mickey. Stop! He woke up!” She put her hands out to slow him and he barged past her, pausing only when she clamped down on his arm.

“What? What! He’s awake! I want to fucking see him!”

“No.” Fiona growled- fucking _growled_ \- and placed herself between Mickey and the doorway. She glanced at the doctor and the nurses quickly, and they disappeared quietly back into Ian’s room. “No Mickey.”

“What the fuck do you mean, no?! I’ve been waiting three fucking weeks for this.” _I’ve been waiting longer than that._ “I want to fucking see him!” Fiona looked at him, her eyes softening as she appraised the desperation in his face.

“I know you do. But Mickey,” She said softly. “This isn’t about you. Look, you know we appreciate all you’ve done for Ian these past few weeks. I know how much- I know how you feel about him. But you’re not an idiot, you knew this was going to happen. I can’t let you in to see him. I have to do what’s best for Ian, and Mickey- you are not it.”

Mickey slumped against the wall behind him, letting his weight pull him down to the floor as he rested his face on his knees.

She was right, he had known what would happen when Ian woke up. Knew it was the right thing to do. Ian had been doing so much better on his own. He just thought, he just figured maybe, maybe, that would have changed. That the journey he and Ian had travelled these past few weeks together would bring them full circle, bring them home. But then, he realized with an aching in his chest, Ian hadn’t travelled any fucking journey. Ian had been fast asleep the whole fucking time, and it was Mickey and Mickey alone who had chewed through every second of their history and shared memories, day after day, waiting, watching, holding on to Ian with love and desperation and everything he had in his pitiful heart. He raised his head slowly to look at Fiona.

“He’s really awake?” She slid down the wall next to him.

“Not now,” Mickey turned his head sharply to look at her. “But he was.” She added hastily. “The doctor says that’s normal. Each day he should get a little stronger, be awake for bigger stretches of time.”

“And is he? Normal, I mean? Is there any…damage?” Fiona shook her head, a small smile on his face.

“As normal as he ever was, not that that was very fucking normal.” Mickey barked out a relieved laugh. “They’ll have to run more tests, but as of right now, he seems fine.”

Mickey relaxed his shoulders, and tipped his head back to rest on the wall behind him. With his eyes closed he asked quietly: “Did he say anything?”

When Fiona didn’t answer, he turned his head towards her. Fiona was rubbing her hands together and looking at the wall opposite her, as if trying to reach a decision.

“No.” She said finally. “Other than hello. And the year, country, and president, when the doctor asked him.”

Mickey nodded slowly, pushing himself up off the back wall and straightening his jacket. “Can I at least look at him? Through the door? I won’t go in, I swear, and you said he was asleep again…” Fiona took a deep breath and stood up.

“Okay Mickey, but no shit, alright? The last thing Ian needs-“

“He won’t even know I’m here.” _Just like the last fucking three weeks._ Fiona nodded at him, and he approached the door cautiously, like there was a wild animal waiting to pounce on the other side, as if Mickey hadn’t come to know this door better than the back of his own fucking hand. He raised his eyes, and looked through the glass.

_Ian._

The same, only not. Color in his cheeks. Hair brushed. Three less machines than when Mickey had left on his fucking mission six hours earlier. Doctors, nurses, Lip, Debbie, milling around, a hive of activity, and Ian sleeping peacefully in the middle of all the chaos.

He took a deep breath and was about to step away from the glass when Ian opened his eyes and looked directly at him.

Mickey froze.

It could have been a second, it could have been hours, but it happened. They stared at each other, drinking the sight of each other in, and a small half smile cocked the edge of Ian’s broken, chapped mouth.

A split second later, the doctor walked past the window inside the room, and by the time he was gone Ian’s eyes were closed again.

“Thanks Fiona.” Mickey mumbled, and walked out of the I.C.U, out of the hospital, and back into the night.


	9. Something's Different

***5 months, 3 weeks, 2 days**

 

“You ready to get this bad boy off today?” Lip smirked, meandering into the room and smacking not altogether playfully on the case covering Ian’s suspended leg.

“Hey, watch it! That’s still healing you know.” Ian replied with a grin, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the bed.

“Yeah? This one too?” Lip asked lightly, rapping briskly on the bracket holding Ian’s arm immobile.

“Just because one arm is broken doesn’t mean they’re both out of commission!” Ian laughed, as he swung his free arm around and whacked his older brother on the back of his head. Lip tried to duck. “Yeah, too slow, idiot. And you’re supposed to be the genius of the family?”

“I hope they’re not grading my genius on a curve based on the rest of you losers.” Lip retorted, settling into the chair next to Ian’s bed with a smile.

He looked around the sunlit room, a far cry from the dark, machine-filled I.C.U suite Ian had been stuck in for the first month of his hospital stay. It was a relief to everyone when they deemed him well enough to be downgraded to G-Ward. The room had too much negativity, too much fear, associated with it. Not to mention the fact that every time Lip entered the room to visit Ian he saw Mickey in his mind’s-eye, hunched over the bed, gripping Ian’s hand tightly in his own. “You know they said you’ll be discharged tomorrow, if everything looks good.” He said, nodding at Ian’s fractured limbs.

“Yep. Can’t come soon enough.”

“Come on, this place isn’t so bad. Your own room, free meals delivered like clockwork, hot women giving you sponge baths…fuck this is sounding better by the second. Hold on-“ Lip started to get out of his chair.

“Where are you going?” Ian asked, frowning at the sudden movement.

“I’m going to find a car to hit me so I can join you in this fucking palace.” The brothers laughed as Ian shoved Lip back into his seat.

They quieted as one of the nurses bustled into the room, a tray of sandwiches and cookies balanced on the cart in front of her.

“Hmm?” Lip murmured to Ian, raising his eyebrows comically to say _I told you so_. Ian snickered and waited while his brother charmed an extra round of food off the nurse for himself.

After she left, the boys chewed in companionable silence. “I don’t think I get as much out of the sponge baths as you would.” Muttered Ian at one point, and his brother grinned at him through a mouth full of P B and J. They finished lunch and Lip yawned noisily, stretching in the hard plastic seat and pushing his feet up against Ian’s bed so the chair balanced on it’s back two legs. He dropped forward and folded his arms on the edge of Ian’s mattress, resting his head on his hands with a second big yawn.

“Late night?”

“Study group ran over.” Lip mumbled sleepily into his folded arms.

“You don’t have to stay you know, I’ll be fine.” Lip lifted his head to look at his brother.

“Fuck am I going anywhere. If your leg is really mashed up I need to know right away so I can head over to the lab.”

“The lab?”

“Yep, I’ll be the first undergrad to have a real live test subject to try out all my inventions on. Laser shooting robotic leg, pogo stick shins, the possibilities are endless.” Ian choked out a laugh as his brother winked at him, lowering his head back into his arms. “Don’t want to waste a second.”

The brothers settled back into easy silence as Lip’s breathing deepened. Ian stared at the top of his head, rubbing a hand through his own hair nervously. He licked his lips quickly, then said; “Lip?”

“Mmmm?” His brother mumbled. Ian cleared his throat and glanced towards the door, checking they weren’t about to be interrupted.

“You know that…thing I was asking you about last week?”

“What thing?” Lip replied, almost unintelligibly, face still wedged into the crook of his arm. Ian took a deep breath and straightened his spine.

“Mickey.”

Lip didn’t move, at least not obviously, but Ian was studying his brother so intently that he immediately noticed the way his breathing picked up, shoulders stiffening.

“What about him?”

“Are you sure he wasn’t here? He definitely didn’t come back to Chicago? It’s just- I don’t know man, something’s different. I could have sworn when I was under-“ Lip lifted his head swiftly and turned to his brother.

“Ian, you were in a coma.” He interrupted roughly. “The president could have been sitting next to you playing the fucking banjo and you wouldn’t have had a clue. You really think you would remember a _Milkovich_ coming to visit?”

“I know! It’s just, you know- those dreams I had, and it felt different when-“

“They’re called dreams for a reason Ian, because they’re not real. Dumbass.” Lip snapped. Ian looked at his brother defensively, then his shoulders slumped. He exhaled slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right, of course you’re right. I guess I just- it felt so real, you know? And with getting my meds straight while I’ve been stuck in here, meeting with my doctor regularly; I guess I had thought maybe it was related to my-“ He paused, clearing his throat again, “The bi-polar shit, you know? And now that I’m finally starting to feel normal again I figured the feeling would go away, but it hasn’t.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it. “Fuck. Maybe I’m not getting better at all. Maybe I’m crazier than ever.” Lip looked down at his hands, sighing defeatedly, and began speaking in a dull voice.

“You’re not crazy, Ian. Fuck. Look, don’t get all fucking weird on me, okay?” He ran a hand through his hair and turned to face his brother. “The reason you’ve been so convinced that there was a Milkovich here is because there was.”

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” Ian jolted upright in bed, rattling the sling holding his leg suspended in the air above him. “Ow! Fuck!”

“Alright, alright, calm down. It’s not what you think. It….it wasn’t Mickey, okay?” Lip paused. "It was Mandy.”

“Mandy?” Ian visibly deflated, sinking back into the pillows. “Mandy was here?”

“Yep. I called her when it happened and she wanted to be here, you know? Caught the bus down the next day. Stayed through the weekend.”

“Mandy.” Ian repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me? Why all the secrecy?” His eyes flew back up to his brother’s face. “Did she say something about Mickey? Is that why-“

“No! No, I don’t know man. You’d just been doing so good, the weeks before this happened. Working, going out- almost like you were back to the old Ian. The Milkovich’s were in your past, you know? Even Mandy. You told me that yourself. She came, and it was good of her to come, but then she left and you were still out of it and we just figured…you didn’t gain anything by knowing, you know? But it might bring all this shit back up. So we just didn’t mention it.”

“Mandy.” Ian repeated for a third time. Lip stared at his brother.

“Look, it doesn’t change anything, okay? I just wanted you to know you weren’t fucking crazy.” He punched Ian lightly on his shoulder. “At least not any crazier than you were before.” Ian smiled, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. Lip stood awkwardly.

“Maybe I will go after all. Take a nap or something on one of the couches in the hall. I’ll be back by 3. That’s when you’re scheduled for the big reveal, right?”

“Sure, sure,” Ian replied distractedly. “Three.” Lip pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, looking at Ian over his shoulder as he left the room.

 _No Mickey?_ He had been so sure. So hopeful. What a fucking joke. He rubbed the corner of his eye angrily and cursed when he felt dampness on the heel of his hand. Dammit.

Mickey had moved on, wherever the fuck he was. Time for Ian to do the same.


	10. A Beat Too Long

***6 months, 2 weeks**

 

“Hold her! Hold her!”

“I’m trying! She’s freaking heavy, man!”

Sean doubled over with laughter as his grip on the girl loosened and Mandy slipped to her knees between the two boys.

“Pick her the fuck up!” Mickey grinned through clenched teeth, trying to be intimidating as he gripped his sister around the waist and attempted to hoist her back up to standing position. “I said fucking hold her!” Mickey’s cursing just made Sean laugh harder, and he dropped to his knees next to the sleeping girl, shaking with amusement. Mickey shook his head in frustration, the wide smirk cutting across his face and betraying the image of control he was trying to convey. He let his sister slide down against his convulsing friend, and stood straight up to crack his back after determining they were propped up safely against each other.

“Fucking useless, the both of you.”

Sean paused, gasping, and looked up at his friend in the streetlight. Mickey met his eyes, took in the idiotic scene before him, and broke into reluctant laughter, rubbing his forehead and shaking his head. “What the fuck, man?”

“Hey-“ Sean retorted, “It was your idea to get your sister wasted. I just suggested taking her out for a birthday drink- one! The shots were on you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mickey muttered, feeling his pockets for his smokes. He lit one up and offered it to Sean.

“Still no.”

“You’re too fucking clean man, you need more vices.”

“I’ve got the two of you, isn’t that enough?” Sean grinned up at him.

“Fuck you!” Mickey grumbled, inhaling deeply. The smile faded slowly on Sean’s face, and he looked at Mickey with a sideways glance.

“I have more vices than you think.” He said quietly. Mickey paused at his serious tone, then replied sarcastically on an exhalation of smoke.

“Yeah? What- you washed your whites with your colors instead of fucking separating them out?”

Sean stared directly at Mickey and the two boys held still, looking at each other. Blue eyes and brown eyes.

“Something like that.” Sean replied. _What the fuck?!_

Suddenly, Mandy’s gentle snoring broke the silence and the boys laughed in relief. Mickey flicked his cigarette away and walked towards his sister, shoving his hand around her waist and hoisting her up.

“Come on sleeping beauty, let’s get you the fuck home.” After he had balanced her precariously against him, he reached out a hand to Sean and the taller man took it, pulling himself up and holding onto Mickey’s fingers a beat too long. _Seriously, what the fuck?!_ Thought Mickey again. _Must be drunker than I thought._

Sean slipped his arm around Mandy from the other side, and the two of them half-carried, half-stumbled the five blocks back to the house.

 

—————

 

“She asleep?”

Sean nodded as he ducked his head under the doorway, rounding the corner back into the kitchen and grabbing the beer out of Mickey’s outstretched hand. “Can’t hold her liquor for shit.”

“I think most people would struggle with ten straight shots of Jack, Mickey.”

Mickey snorted. “Milkovich’s aren’t most people.” He cracked the beer against the counter top and the cap popped off into the garbage can underneath. He downed half of the bottle in one gulp and wiped his mouth messily, belching loudly.

“Classy.” Sean laughed, reaching into the drawer for the bottle opener and holding it up like a prized museum exhibit. “Today, Mr Milkovich, I would like to introduce you to this amazing, modern-day invention- the bottle opener. See, you apply a little pressure, right here and - wow, like magic. The cap comes right off! No counter top needed.”

“Fuck off.” Mickey scoffed, heading into the living room. He dropped on to the couch and swung his feet on to the coffee table in front of him. “Shit, the whole room’s fucking spinning.” He mumbled as Sean ambled in and flopped down next to him, beer in hand.

“For me too.”

“Gotta be at work in five hours. Shit.”

“You’re opening?” Mickey nodded and belched again.

“That sucks, man.”

The two settled into an easy silence as Mickey started looking through his pockets, reaching for his smokes again.

“C’mon man, not in the house. You know that.”

“You’re seriously still pushing that shit?” Mickey grumbled. “Come on…it’s the middle of Winter! You’re gonna make me go outside? It’s fucking cold, man. I thought you’d be over it by now. Look-“ He turned to look at his roommate, and jerked back in surprise when he realized Sean’s face was a breath away from his own. “Wha-?”

“Mickey…” Sean muttered thickly, and leaned in to close the gap.

 

—————

 

_Fuck._

What the fuck was happening?

Mickey was frozen in place. _Was this really happening?_

Sean was pressed up against him, coaxing open his mouth with his own, hot and warm, and Mickey- Mickey was frozen.

This was so out of left field, he was completely unprepared. Unprepared for anyone, really, the wound Ian had ripped through him still open and bleeding after all these months, but especially- Sean?

He pulled back and put his hands on Sean’s chest. “Wait, I-“

“No.” Sean growled, and reached forward again, gripping the back of Mickey’s head firmly and slamming their lips together. What the hell happened to mild-mannered, good-fucking-guy Sean?

This time Mickey was a little less taken aback, and after a split-second he reached his own hands up around Sean’s face, grappling at his neck and yanking him to him. It was a battle of dominance that Mickey quickly won, pushing Sean back into the sofa, climbing up and straddling him as he clutched at the sides and back of Sean’s head like he was lost at sea and Sean was his lifebelt. Tongues tangled together, and they rolled, gasping, onto the floor.

 _Yes, yes!_ Mickey thought desperately; _he was still alive after all!_ But then Sean’s hands were pushing up, up, up at his shirt, and Mickey was tugging Sean’s hoodie over his head, and he didn’t think any more, of anything at all.

They were grasping at each other’s belt buckles when Mickey felt a strange, rumbling sensation at the top of his left leg.

“What the fu-?” He muttered, opening his eyes. It took a second to adjust, but within moments he was crashing back to reality- Sean? _Shit!_ He hadn’t even known he was fucking gay! Sean, really? Sean and...Mickey? _No- no!_

“No!” He snarled out loud, startling himself as much as Sean, who raised his head from Mickey’s chest to look at him with cloudy, lust-filled eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I- my- my phone.” He stammered, pushing out from underneath Sean and groping in his pockets. He found the vibrating phone quickly and lifted it, fingers fumbling on the screen, up to his face. _Got to get away!_ He thought, panicked. “I have to- I gotta take this…” He scrambled backwards to his feet and Sean cocked his head at him, silent, eyes narrowed, appraising. Mickey turned away and stumbled into the kitchen, pressing ‘Answer’ without looking at the caller id.

“H-hello?” He mumbled roughly, clearing his throat. “Hello?” He tried again.

There was a pause, a breath, and Mickey suddenly realized it wasn’t his phone he held clutched in his hand at all. It was Mandy’s.

“Hey Mick.”

 _Fuck._ The chasm opened up and Mickey fell in.

Ian.


	11. The Call

***6 months, 2 weeks, 1 day**

 

 

Ian held the phone away from his ear and glanced at the screen. Still connected.

“Hello? Mick? Are you there?”

Silence.

“Mickey, I’m sorry to call so late. I was trying to reach Mandy. It’s her birthday, right? Wanted to wish her…but it’s late. I should go. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m gonna go-“

“No.” Came a strangled voice down the line, interrupting his panicked ramblings. Silence again, then; “I mean yes, it’s her birthday. But she’s passed out upstairs. I have…I have her phone.”

Ian switched the handset to his other hand. _Maybe this one won’t shake so fucking much_ , he thought angrily, pacing the room. “Oh, okay. Well I can call back tomorrow...” He trailed off. _Shit._ Why did Mickey have to answer the phone? But fuck, it was good to hear his voice. Ian listened to the sound of a door opening and closing down the line, and Mickey lighting a cigarette.

“So how have you been?” Mickey’s voice sounded stronger than before as he exhaled, and Ian could picture him so clearly, sitting on a nothing stoop in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, a smoke clasped between those stubby fingers he missed so fucking much.

“Uh, good, you know? I’m working now, back at the ROTC. It’s just a desk job but I’m lucky they’d have me at all, after….well, you know. And I’m taking my meds, properly this time. We seem to have found a combination that works, at least for now. Everybody’s good. Fiona’s working, Lip’s in college, although he’s here more than he’s there it seems, these days. Debbie’s Debbie, hormonal as shit, but Debbie, Carl’s still in Juvie but should be getting out in a couple of months-“ _Stop fucking talking, you pussy._ “How are you?” He finished lamely. He couldn’t believe he was talking to Mickey after six fucking months. A lifetime.

Mickey let out a choked laugh.

“You mean right now or in general?”

“Either…both…I don’t know.”

“Well right now I’m pretty fucking drunk. We took Mandy out and got her shitfaced for her birthday. It seems I got hammered along the way.” Ian’s heart sped up.

“We?”

“Me and Se-…our roommate.”

“Oh.” The simple explanation should have made him feel better, but something in Mickey’s cagey reply made Ian feel a hell of a lot worse.

“In general, I’m…you know.” No, he didn’t know. That was the fucking problem. “So you’re better? Casts off? Done with rehab, all that shit?”

“You know about my accident?” Ian asked in surprise. Mickey stuttered out a disbelieving laugh as he continued. “What the fuck am I saying, of course you know. Mandy came to see me, she must have told you.”

“Mandy told me?” Mickey echoed, an indecipherable edge to his voice,

“Yeah, that was the other reason I was calling. I haven’t spoken to her since, wanted to say thanks. And sorry, probably. She came all that way and I didn’t have a fucking clue. I feel bad she made the trip and we didn’t even get to hang out.”

“You feel bad…” Mickey repeated, "Gallagher, you were in a fucking coma.”

“Apparently.” Ian said blithely, trying not to let on how much that ‘Gallagher’ stung. _So we’re back to that, eh Mick? No more Ian._ “Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing good.”

Mickey didn’t acknowledge the bland statement, and the silence stretched between them, making Ian feel further away from him than ever. He reached the window and stopped pacing, overcome with a sudden rage. Before he could stop himself he blurted out; “Really Mick? I’m in a fucking coma and you don’t even call to check in on me? I can’t believe that shit. If it had been you-“ He paused, waves of nausea washing over him as he imagined Mickey lying in a hospital bed. “If it had been you I would have been there, no matter fucking what. The second I got the call. But you, you really don’t give a shit about me at all, do you?”

Mickey let out a harsh laugh that hurt his ears, there was so much venom behind it.

“Really?” He bit out, and Ian recoiled at the anger in his voice. “I don’t give a shit, huh? If I remember correctly it was you who told me to fucking leave, not the other way around. I told you I fucking loved you, and you told me to go. And it’s me who doesn’t give a shit?” Ian folded to his knees at the tidal wave of rage and resentment in Mickey’s voice. It was almost a physical assault. ”Fuck you.” Mickey spat out.

“Mickey I-“

“No, listen here asshole. You told me to go, I went. You don’t get to be a pussy bitch because I did what you asked. I left, alright? I’ve got a new fucking life now, one that doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to pull your next crazy shit, just like you wanted. One that doesn’t involve me being lied to by you, cheated on, stabbed in the fucking back at every fucking turn.” His voice broke as he said forcefully, “I’m fucking happy.”

“Mickey-“

“ _No!_ Fuck You. It’s my turn now. Get the fuck out of my life, Gallagher, and stay there.” Mickey inhaled sharply, before delivering the final blow. “And for your fucking information, I _was_ there douchebag. I sat by your fucking bedside for weeks on end, holding your comatose fucking hand. So now who doesn’t give a shit, huh?”

“Wha- what?” Ian choked into dead air. He pulled the phone away from his ear in shock and looked at the display.

Call ended. Mickey had hung up.


	12. No One To Trust

***8 months**

 

He knew it. He fucking knew it. _Mickey had been there._

Ian locked the door of the ROTC training center behind him and swung his back pack on to his shoulder, his mind still on the words Mickey had spat at him six weeks ago. “I _was_ there, douchebag."

“So you’re really going?” Sarah, his work buddy, fell into easy step beside him as he walked briskly out of the lot towards the El.

“Yep, bus leaves in an hour.”

“I still can’t believe they lied to you.”

“I can.” Ian muttered, as she pulled him in for a hug.

“Well good luck, alright? Let me know how it goes.” She patted him on the shoulder as they parted ways, and the smile faded from his face as he strode towards the station.

 _Liars, fucking liars._ His chest burned. He knew he hadn’t imagined Mickey’s presence.

When Mickey had hung up on him all those weeks ago it had taken Ian a full hour to move from the position he had dropped to during their conversation, knelt painfully on the floor of his night-blackened bedroom. Thoughts swirled around his head in a tornado more manically than ever before, even in his most frantic of episodes. _Mickey had come. Fiona had lied. Holding his hand. Weeks on end? Lip- the fucking liar. Mickey was happy? Who the fuck is this roommate?_ On and on they bounced around his brain, silenced only by the one prevailing truth that hushed all of the other voices- _Mickey had come._

Finally, it was the awkward position that roused him from his stupor, as pangs of discomfort shot through his hunched legs and cut through his consciousness. He rose slowly, losing his balance as his knees cracked and leaning against the wall to stay upright. He took a deep breath, then started to move.

In a trance he grabbed his keys and wallet from the side of his bed, shrugging on his jacket and stumbling almost drunkenly down the stairs, out the front door and on to the El. The cold night air sharpened his awareness and he stared blankly in front of him throughout the train ride, oblivious to the homeless drunks and tired hookers riding in the near-empty car alongside him.

When he reached his stop he paced determinedly out, people taking one look at his face and scattering out of his path without saying a word. He sprinted down darkened streets towards his destination, banging on the door until a sleepy under grad tapped in the security code to let him in with mumbled curses and black looks. He raced up the stairs, counting doorways until he reached the fifth on his left. This time he didn’t bother knocking. Ian threw the door open, striding towards his sleeping brother’s frame.

“You asshole.” He hissed coldly, as Lip rolled over in bed, opening his eyes and taking in his brother’s presence with surprise.

“Ian, what the-“ Ian slammed his fist into his brother’s face, releasing all the pent up frustration and misery of the past six months. Lip tried to lift his hands to defend himself, but Ian was too quick, pulling him off the bed and kicking him hard in the ribs as he crashed to the ground. As Lip gasped for breath Ian stood over him, gripping him by his shirt and lifting his head until their faces were a hair apart.

“You think this is a fucking game?” He spat fiercely into Lip’s dazed face. “You think you can just play with people’s lives, make decisions for me like I’m a fucking child?” He slammed Lip’s head down on to the floor with a thud and resumed kicking him in the ribs, the stomach, wherever he could make contact. “You think you know what's best for me, asshole? You're a fucking idiot. You don’t know what-“ _Kick_. “you’ve” _kick_ “fucking” _kick_ “done.” He slammed his fist into Lip’s nose and an awful crunching sound brought him back to reality as his brother’s blood sprayed across his knuckles. He stepped back, surveying the pitiful mess, _the fucking liar,_ lying huddled on the floor in front him, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.

“Ian, it was for the best, we-” Lip croaked painfully. Ian smashed his fist into the side of Lip’s head and his brother moaned, clutching his legs to his chest.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Ian growled venomously, pacing around the room. “I need to fucking think.” He circled the room over and over like a caged lion, landing a thudding kick onto his brother’s broken body every time he passed him.

“Ian, I’m sorry, we thought we were protecting you.” Lip mumbled, trying to lift his head as he spat blood from his split lip. Ian leaned over him again, his face contorted with contempt.

“It wasn’t your decision to fucking make.” Ian snarled, and kicked him solidly between the legs as he turned and strode out of the room.

He had spent the remainder of the night riding the El to nowhere, hopping on and off trains every time a conductor started looking at him suspiciously. He supposed he looked like a lunatic, hair wild, hands and face covered with smattered blood that wasn’t his own. He needed a shower and a change of clothes, but no fucking way was he going back home. Lip, he could kick the shit out of. Fiona he couldn’t, and he was in no mood to sit down and talk about his fucking feelings with his liar of a sister.

Finally the sun started to rise, and when he figured it was a reasonable enough hour he headed to work, using the gym locker rooms to wash the blood off his shattered body, rinsing his clothes in the suds and grabbing a change of clothes from the lost and found while they dried in the sun.

When Sarah had showed up for her shift an hour later he had told her the barest of bones- they were work friends, and he liked her, but they weren’t especially close and he didn’t feel like rooting through the collective works of all the ways his life sucked major ass at eight o’ clock in the fucking morning. She was kind, and offered him her couch to crash on while he figured out his next move. He took her up on it, and they had rumbled along together in easy companionship for the next few weeks as Ian tried to decide what the hell to do.

Every impulse in his body screamed for Mickey. If he got distracted while typing up reports at work he would look down at the computer screen and realize he had been browsing train and bus schedules from Chicago to Indiana. With a muttered curse he would force himself to close the window and refocus on work, mind racing at 100 miles an hour. Mickey had told him to stay away. He said he was _happy_. Despite everything Ian didn’t want to fuck that up for him, no matter how selfishly he yearned to hop the next ride two and a half hours down South.

But finally- _finally_ \- it was too much. When the initial rush of fury had passed, it had been replaced by a dull ache of loneliness for Mickey that kept him awake at night. He had visited his Doctor looking for help managing the emotion, but after listening to him rant for half an hour she had ushered him out of her office with gentle pats and reassurances that his meds were still working just fine and no dosage increases were necessary- this pain was outside the world of prescriptions and medical help.

He looked for solace with his family, finally returning the countless calls and voicemails left by Lip and Fiona, and they had reached an uneasy truce. He wasn’t willing to forgive them, even though he understood their motives. He had tried to, but when he had asked them both point blank if they would make the same decision if faced with the choice again, they had remained silent, and that was all the answer Ian needed. They weren’t at war with each other, this was his family. But something undeterminable had shifted between them, and Ian didn’t have the energy or desire to figure out this new balance with siblings he didn’t hold any trust in.

He coasted through work, hung out with Sarah, and marked each day on the calendar since the phone call with a big, red fucking ‘X’. Life moved on, but no matter how he tried Ian couldn’t seem to move along with it.

So finally he had decided; he was going to Indiana. He had to see Mickey, hear in person the words telling him to get out, and stay out. See this supposed happiness Mickey was so determined to protect. Hell, Ian was more fucking miserable than ever, how the fuck had Mickey grasped this elusive peace?

He called Mandy and she answered happily, telling him the third weekend from then she had off from work.

“It’s perfect,” she enthused. “The house will be empty, we’ll have the chance to hang out properly, just like old times.” _Empty?_ Ian thought, _I want to see Mickey_. But he didn’t speak his thoughts out loud- what could he say? Instead responding with a murmured assent, and booking his ticket as soon as they hung up so he didn't have chance to change his mind. No going back now.

As he settled into his seat on the bus he felt his heart begin to pound insistently in his chest. Bang, bang, bang.

_I’m coming, Mick._


	13. Beware The Bears

***8 months, 2 days**

 

“Morning, sleepyhead.” A voice rumbled, low and close in Mickey’s ear. He blinked his eyes open slowly, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the partially opened curtains to see Sean leaning over him, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

“What time is it?” He muttered thickly, reaching down automatically to search for his cigarettes at the side of the bed. “Where the fuck are my pants?”

“My Mom’s washing them for you, said you smelled like a homeless person and the least she could do is send me back to school with a boyfriend who didn’t make people switch seats to get away from him on the bus.” Sean said seriously, passing him a cup before breaking into a grin. Mickey choked out a laugh,

“The fuck she did.” He took a gulp of the liquid and swallowed with a grimace, placing the cup clumsily on the floor next to the bed. “What hell is this?”

“That, my friend, is real coffee. French press. Not the swill us poor grocery store workers are used to downing by the bucket just to make it through the day.”

“Well it tastes like shit.”

“You’re welcome.” The two boys stared at each other, before Sean put his cup down next to Mickey’s and rolled on top of him, smiling goofily.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mickey shoved him off, scooting backwards on the bed and glancing nervously towards the closed door.

“Taking care of the not-so-little problem you seem to be having right…about…” Sean crawled after him, pressing him back into the mattress and reaching down between his legs, “Here.” Mickey pushed him away more roughly and straightened his boxers.

“Stop it man! I’m serious! Your parents are in the next fucking room!” Sean laughed and started grappling at the elastic around Mickey’s waist.

“They won’t mind.”

“Sean!” The boys laughed as they rolled around the bed, their wrestling turning more aggressive as they pulled and twisted against each other. “Seems I’m not the only one having a problem.” Mickey grunted as he felt Sean, pressing hard and insistent, into his side.

“Boys?” A bright voice called through the door as Sean’s mom knocked lightly on the bedroom door. Mickey thrust Sean off him with a force so strong the taller boy tumbled to the floor with a thump.

“Yes, Mrs Miller?” Mickey bit out in a strangled voice. Sean looked up at him snickering, a pile of limbs and half removed clothing.

“I’m making pancakes before we run you two down to the station. Blueberry or chocolate chip?” Mickey glared down the boy shaking with mirth next to the bed.

“You think you’re so fucking funny!” He hissed, before clearing his throat and replying more loudly, “Umm, chocolate chip sounds good.”

“You’ve got it! They’ll be ready in ten- along with your clothes.” Mickey listened to the sound of retreating footsteps, and slumped back against the headboard with a relieved thud.

“You’re messed up.” He muttered down at Sean, shaking his head in amused frustration. The dark-haired boy clambered back up on to the bed, bringing his face close to Mickey’s.

“Is that so?” He murmured, licking his lips suggestively. “Want to straighten me out?”

“Not fucking here!” Mickey grinned, sliding out from under him and off the bed, stretching as his feet hit the floor. “What’s this about the station? Thought we weren’t leaving ’til tomorrow.” Sean stretched out on the bed, combing his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, sorry man, Paul called while you were sleeping the sleep of a Disney princess-“ Mickey threw a pillow at him. “Oof- two of the girls called out for inventory tonight and he’s in a bind, said I would take the extra shift.”

“Isn’t that an all-nighter?”

“Yeah…couldn’t turn down six hours of OT with these school bills mounting up.” Sean paused, “That okay?”

“Sure, man, whatever.” Mickey replied, looking around the room. “Got anything I can wear ’til my laundry’s done?”

Sean bounced off the bed and headed to his closet, pulling out a pair of jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. Mickey watched him, a half smile on his lips. This kid had so much fucking energy. He was like an oversized puppy, bounding around the place like the whole world was his fucking playground.

“These should fit.” He said, tossing the clothes to Mickey with a smirk. “Just roll up the legs six inches or so and you should be good.”

“Fuck you!” Mickey snorted. “Go downstairs and eat your fucking pancakes. I’ll be there in a minute.” Sean leaned over and planted a kiss on Mickey’s mouth before leaving the room with a grin over his shoulder.

Mickey waited until the door was closed before letting the clothes fall from his grip and dropping back on the bed, face in his hands.

_What the fuck was he doing here?_

When Sean had invited him back to his parents place for the weekend Mickey had been wasted, high after night of hard drinking with Sean and some of his college buddies celebrating the end of their mid-terms with a six hour bar crawl that Mickey had stopped counting at when they hit the seventh one.

“Wanna come to my parents cabin with me in a coupla' weeks?” Sean had slurred, arm slung loosely around Mickey’s shoulders as they staggered into the house.

“I don’t know man.”

“Come on Mickey, it’s fucking nice, you’ll love it.”

“Did you just curse?”

“Fuck yeah I did!” Sean yelled, pumping his fist in the air drunkenly. “There’s fucking trees, and a lake, and even fucking bears, man!” Mickey grabbed him as he stumbled, face-first, into the sofa. “Bears…” He growled, pawing at the air and baring his teeth dramatically.

“Alright brains, relax.” Mickey laughed, sliding down on the floor next to Sean’s head.

“C’mon, why not? It’s only a couple of days. I’ll make it worth your while…” Sean reached a hand around Mickey’s front, and ran his hand up and down his chest for a second before the hand went limp, and the sound of gentle snoring started rumbling behind him. Mickey turned around and looked at the sleeping face.

“Yeah, really fucking worth my while.” He paused for a minute. “Okay.” He muttered. Sean opened a sleepy eye in surprise.

“Okay? You’ll come?”

“Only if you promise not to fucking curse again. That shit sounded weird.”

“You fucking got it, tough guy.” Sean said jubilantly, and pulled Mickey up off the floor on top of him.

And now here he was. Sean hadn’t lied, this place was nice. A log cabin halfway up a fucking mountain, trees and nature everywhere. Yesterday they had gone hiking with Sean’s parents for three hours- three fucking hours! Walking, by choice!- then the two of them had slipped off to skinny-dip in the lake as the sun set behind them.

Mickey had smiled, had even remembered to say thank you once in a while... and had never felt more out of place in his fucking life. This was surreal.

Sean’s parents were so bizarrely normal. They welcomed Sean’s ‘friend’ with open arms, not thrown in the slightest by the way their son rested his hand on Mickey’s leg while they ate dinner and looped his hand loosely through Mickey’s as they trekked through the woods. Mickey shrugged off the advances uncomfortably every time, but he seemed to be the only one who thought it was awkward as shit. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing here. He was completely out of his depth. Thank fuck they were leaving early, time to get back to some semblance of normalcy.

He opened the window and leaned out as far as he could, lighting a smoke and exhaling forcefully into the outside wind. He felt like a teenage girl hiding in her bedroom, trying to get a sneaky nicotine fix without her parents catching on.

“Shit.” He cursed as red ash blew back into the room, landing on the blanket and burning a hole through the fabric. He patted it out and his eyes lit on his cell on the floor next to the window. “No fucking signal.” He muttered, holding the cell out of the window as far as he could. Not that it mattered. The only people who called him these days were Sean and Mandy, who was busy this weekend with an old boyfriend or some shit. As long as it wasn’t Kenyatta, and she had sworn it wasn’t, he didn’t give a crap.

He scrolled through his contacts absentmindedly as his cigarette burned down, pausing when he got to the ‘I’s. No Ian of course, straight from the last ‘H’ to Iggy. He had deleted it months ago, not that it mattered. He still knew Ian’s number better than his own; fuck, he had dialed it enough times in the past, chasing his ass down.

When he had broken away from Sean’s grasp only to hear Ian’s fucking voice down the line a month and a half ago, it had felt like a cruel joke. The breath had been sucked from his lungs and he had stumbled blindly out of the house and onto the front stoop, Sean’s eyes burning a hole in his back. It had only been when Ian had started to talk about hanging up that Mickey’s voice had been shocked backed into commission.

“No.” He uttered. _No, don’t go. Yes, go. No, no, no._ “I mean yes, it’s her birthday. But she’s passed out upstairs. I have…I have her phone.” He hoped what he was saying were actual words. He had no fucking idea what was coming out of his mouth. He had fumbled for a cigarette and took a deep inhalation to steady himself, shaking his head to gather his wits.

He had stumbled through the shit show of the conversation, evidently coherently as Ian responded to his comments in a way that vaguely made sense. He was so focused on the low rumbling of the voice he had missed so much that it was only when they landed on the topic of Ian’s accident that Mickey really clicked in.

 _He doesn’t fucking know._ The realization reverberated around his head more loudly than the words Ian was saying, even drowning out the frantic _“Ian, Ian, Ian”_ that had been drumming in his heart since he first picked up the phone and heard, “Hey Mick.”.

He wasn’t going to tell him. _He wasn’t._ But then Ian had started attacking him. Him! Calling him out on shit that was so far from the truth his insides burned with the fucking injustice of it. Mickey may have been an idiot in the past when it came to Gallagher, but he was no fucking pussy. He wouldn’t back down from this fight any more than any other. 

The floodgates opened and he lashed out at Ian with all the resentment and anger and rage he had, punching out each word like a physical blow he wished he could actually land on the fucking idiot down the phone, who was so damn lost in his fictional fucking world he needed a map to find his way back.

He had disconnected the call with a hiss of breath and flung Mandy’s phone on to the concrete of the front yard, cursing when he heard the unmistakeable cracking of glass. “Shit!” He hung his head between his legs and tried to slow the violent slamming of his heart against his ribcage. “Fuck.” It felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. He sucked in short, shallow breaths, lifting a shaking hand to his lips as he tried to light another smoke. His fingers groped uselessly at his lighter, spinning the igniter over and over trying to get a spark. “Shit! Fuck! Fucking fuck!” _Would this never fucking end?_

“Can I help you with that?”

Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Sean’s voice behind him. He had been so focused on the fire raging inside him- _Ian, Ian, IAN_ \- he hadn’t heard Sean follow him outside. Mickey didn’t answer, instead hurling the lighter in the same direction as the phone.

“Want to talk about it?” Mickey turned to look at him slowly, still feeling like he was about to combust any second. _No, he didn’t want to fucking talk about it._ He reached out a shaking hand and pulled Sean roughly to him.

“No.” He growled.

That was the first night they fucked. Mickey had moved like he was possessed. Biting, slamming, pulling, ripping, tearing, literally trying to fuck Ian Gallagher out of his system and into oblivion. Sean had finally pleaded for mercy and they had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning in a tangle of sweaty limbs and exhausted muscles.

In the morning, Mickey had woken first, and headed out to the front stoop to chain-smoke his way through a new pack of cigarettes with a coffee by his side. Sean had joined him an hour later, easing the door open and settling down next to him on the concrete without saying a word. After five minutes of silence, Mickey muttered a gruff “Sorry.”, and Sean turned to look at him.

“For what?”

Mickey wasn’t sure how it happened, but things began to change between him and Sean. It was a delicate shift; they had always ridden the bus together to and from work when convenient, but now they would wait for each other if their shifts didn’t finish at the same time. Mandy would ask Sean about ‘their' plans for the weekend, and he would look at Mickey, eyebrows raised, waiting for his response. They slept together the next night, and the next, Mickey always creeping back into his room when he was sure Sean was asleep, not ready for the intimacy waking up together implied.

One night he fell asleep after they finished along with Sean, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, Sean’s arm flung carelessly across his chest, he was too tired and comfortable to move, so he stayed. When he woke up the next morning and Sean simply gave him a lazy smile before climbing over him go and make coffee, he realized the world hadn’t stopped turning on it’s axis, and maybe this wasn’t such a big deal after all. He stopped sneaking back to his own room after that.

It was an easy transition, because Sean made it easy. There were no dramatic confrontations or demands, no big conversations, other than the one a week or two into their new ‘arrangement’ when they had been lying in bed together after they finished a post-work, both-too-tired-to-barely-stand quickie, when Mickey had murmured. “Fucking gay, huh? I never would have guessed.”

And Sean had replied simply, “I like who I like, and I like you, Milkovich.”

Simple. Easy. _Fucking nice._ So nice Mickey had rumbled along, allowing Sean to pull him further into his world, allowing himself to relax, even taste glimpses of what he guessed was happiness on occasion. It was only in the minutes before dawn when he would wake to the sound of Sean snoring lightly beside him, when the house was still dark and the world seemed to be locked in a dreamlike state, that his heart would start up the drumming again- _Ian, Ian, Ian_ ; but he would push it back down as quickly as he could, breathing deeply and steadily, pulling the other man quickly out of unconsciousness and on top of him to drown it back out.

He flicked the butt of his cigarette out of the window and leaned over to grab the clothes lying in a heap on the floor. _Time to go home._


	14. In or Out

***8 months, 2 days, 1 hour**

 

**11:00 am**

Ian wandered through the bedroom, running his finger lightly over the chest of drawers just inside the doorway, overflowing with clothes shoved haphazardly in and spilling out messily over the relatively clean floor. He picked up a grey shirt from the open hamper and held it to his face breathing deeply. _Mickey._ Fuck. It was weird as hell to be here.

The last day and a half had been such a rollercoaster of emotions. Great, to see Mandy. They had slipped easily into their old camaraderie like no time had passed at all. Shitty, to have it confirmed that Mickey would definitely not be back before Ian left in the morning, although he still hadn’t quite figured out where he was. Mandy had muttered something about a camping trip with their roommate, but Mickey? Camping? That didn’t make sense. Surreal, too, to see the house- in a nice neighbourhood!- that the Milkovich’s now called home. Funny as shit last night, when he had got more drunk off two beers than Mandy had off multiple shots, and they had laughed and stumbled their way down a convoluted path of shared memories, half of them painful as hell but made funny because of the alcohol in their systems. Hard. Hard, and yet gratifying to see that Mickey truly had made a life here without him, a good life, if the pictures taped to the fridge and the messily scribbled notes between the roommates strewn around the house making plans, reminders about trash day, and changes of shifts at work were anything to go by.

He sat down on the unmade bed and smoothed his hand over the comforter. Mickey’s room. Mickey’s bed. A world away from the smoky, messy hole on the Southside where Ian had attacked him with the crowbar. He smiled at the memory, remembering how that day had switched gears so quickly, so unexpectedly, and led to so many more memories being made in that room together. Kissing, fighting, fucking, fighting some more, holding each other quietly as Mickey tried to coax him through the dark, early days of his diagnosis, wrestling, laughing, crying, loving. He exhaled deeply. There were no memories of Ian in this room.

The painful thought hit him hard, and he dropped the shirt to swipe roughly at his eyes, knocking a pile of quarters balanced precariously on the bedside table rolling all over the floor. “Shit!” He slid down to his knees and started rooting around on the floor and under the bed, gathering them up. His hand met an object under the bed- was it…it couldn’t be- a book?

“You’re reading now?” He muttered as he pulled it out curiously. He wiped the thick layer of dust from the familiar cover, and smiled in recognition. It was his old ROTC training handbook, the one he thought he had lost a lifetime ago, only noticing it’s absence when he had got the desk job at the training center and gone home, embarking on an ebullient quest that was ultimately fruitless to brush up on his old reading material. “No shit!” He laughed softly, flicking through the pages, pausing only when he reached about two thirds through to find an old, crumpled piece of paper shoved firmly into the pages.

He pulled it out slowly, eyes registering the image in front of him with disconcerting slowness. _It was him._ Ian. An old picture, one he had forgotten even existed, his head cocked to one side, smiling at the camera with a beanie on his head. How long had Mickey had this? How had he got it in the first place? Why did he still have it now?

His heart began to race again, like it was waking up from a deep sleep, stretching and cracking it’s way back into a hopeful beating rhythm, pumping adrenaline through his veins as he processed the image. Was Mickey still thinking about him? Maybe he wasn’t as ready to close the door on their mess of a love as he had said. Maybe he still thought about him. Wanted him. Loved him. _“I was there, douchebag.”_ Why else would he still have his picture?

But then, Ian’s shoulders slumped. This picture hadn’t been taped up to the fridge like the goofy shots of Mickey, Mandy, and the tall, good looking guy with the open smile who Mandy explained was their roommate, Sean. Hadn’t even been taped up in here, in Mickey’s own space, or preserved somewhere accessible in a drawer, or on his bedside table. It had been shoved in an old book, lying forgotten under the bed, for months probably, judging by the grey remnants of dust he still had on his fingertips. “Shit.” He scoffed angrily at his own idiocy. _Wake the fuck up, Ian._

The door slamming downstairs made him jump, and he shoved the picture back into the book, sliding it quickly under the bed as he tripped over himself, bolting back out of Mickey’s room and into Mandy’s, where he had been staying. He slid back under the covers just as Mandy rounded the corner.

“You’re still sleeping? I bought bagels.” She said, dropping down on the bed next to him. “You okay? You look white as a ghost."

“No, I’m good…just hungover.” Mandy laughed, shoving him gently on the shoulder.

“Me too, that was some night. Come downstairs, I’ll make coffee.” She stood, turning to look at him in the doorway. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yep.” He lied, faking a stretch and rubbing his eyes as he sat up. “Be even better when I get some caffeine in me.”

Mandy picked up his shirt from the floor and tossed it to him, heading back downstairs. He was good? _What a fucking joke._

 

—————

 

**12:00 pm**

“What the fuck is going on?” Mickey grumbled, peering over Sean’s shoulder to watch him scrolling through his cellphone.

“Looks like there was an accident all the way down 65. Multi car pile-up.” Mickey rubbed his eyes in frustration, banging his head against the window and muttering an angry “Shit.” under his breath. They had been on the bus an hour and a half already and he felt like a caged animal. The first hour had been fine, they’d listened to music, laughed about the weekend, and slept sporadically, leaning against each other, Sean’s head tucked into the crook of Mickey’s neck as the engine of the bus vibrated beneath them in a soothing rumble. But then- this shit show. The momentum of the bus had slowed suddenly, throwing them against the headrests of the seats in front of them and jolting them awake. They had been crawling along at 10 miles an hour ever since.

“Maybe I should call Paul, let him know I’m going to be late.” Sean mused.

“Shit- you’re not meant to be in until seven- you really think this is going to take that fucking long?” Mickey felt like he would lose his mind at the prospect. The bus schedule had them getting in at 2pm. No way that was going to happen, but fucking 7pm?

“Probably not, I’ll wait.”

“Wish I could have a fucking smoke.” Mickey said grumpily, shifting in his seat and staring resentfully out the window at the rows of traffic either side of them. He had such a sense of urgency to speed things up, he didn’t understand it. The need to get back to Indiana was almost overwhelming.

“Go back to sleep Mickey. We’ll be there before you know it.” Sean said soothingly, lying his head back down on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Not fucking likely with this racket.” He mumbled as car horns blared around them. _Come on, come on, come on._

 

—————

 

**2:30 pm**

Ian shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, and Mandy’s head slipped from his shoulder and into his lap. She started, opening her eyes to smile at him with a bleary, unfocused look.

“Sorry, guess I fell asleep.”

“No worries, I did too.” Ian eased out from under her, heading into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. They had eaten breakfast in the kitchen, then headed to the sofa to nurse their hangovers with a shitty, forgettable Sunday afternoon TV movie, both of them dropping off within minutes. Mandy yawned as Ian wandered back into the living room.

“Mand, I think I’m gonna head back earlier than planned.” Mandy looked crestfallen and stood to face him.

“What, why? When?”

“There’s a bus that leaves at 4. I just- I think it’s time for me to go.” Mandy eyed him, nodding slowly. They hadn’t talked about Mickey, at least not in any depth. Outside of the basic updates, Mandy had seemed to want to avoid the subject, and Ian hadn’t pressed her. Skirting around the truth was an art they were both practiced in. It was enough, too much, really, just to be here, in his space, breathing his air. What would he have said, anyway?

“I understand.” She said, disappointment in her voice, and reached out her arms to hug him, patting him awkwardly on the back. “Don’t leave it so long next time. And don’t go getting yourself in another fucking coma- you want to see me, just call.” She grinned, slapping his arm playfully. “I don’t play so hard to get that you have to get hit by a car to hang out.” Ian let out a muffled laugh into her shoulder.

“You Milkovich’s, you know? The things the rest of us have to do for some attention…” She pulled back and smiled up at him.

“Come on, I’ll help you pack.”

 

—————

 

**3:00 pm**

“Thank fuck!” Mickey stretched loudly, his joints creaking and snapping back into place as he happily lit a smoke outside the bus terminal. “I thought we’d never get off that fucking bus!”

“Yes I know,” Sean replied dryly, ruffling his hair. Mickey knocked his hand away as he inhaled. “And the bus driver knew, and the other passengers knew, and I’m guessing the rest of Indiana knew too. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Come on man, you have to admit that was the worst fucking bus ride in the history of bus rides.” Mickey flicked his cigarette butt away and immediately reached for another one. “But who cares, we’re fucking free now!” Sean laughed at the jubilance in his voice and knocked his shoulder affectionately.

“Come on, let’s walk home.”

“Walk? That’s three fucking miles man! I have money for a cab.”

“You just complained for the last four and a half hours about how you couldn’t wait for your feet to touch the ground, and now you want to get in a car?” Sean teased incredulously, picking up their backpacks and slinging one around Mickey’s shoulders as he shrugged on his own. “We’re walking.”

Mickey watched Sean stride off with a grin on his face, cursing under his breath as he started to follow him. He didn’t mind, not really. He was almost fucking giddy to be back, probably could have run back to the house if really necessary…or at the very least got up to a slow jog.

“Wait up, Forest Gump. I’m fucking coming.”

 

—————

 

**3:25 pm**

“Okay, cab’s on it’s way.” Mandy said, hanging up her cell.

“Thanks,” Ian replied distractedly, rifling through his backpack. “Hey, have you seen my wallet?”

“Have you checked the couch? Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were watching the movie.” Mandy spoke over her shoulder as she headed to the living room, fumbling down the sides of the cushions. She pulled her hand out and held up the leather wallet triumphantly. “Told you!”

“Shit, thanks. I’ll be needing that.” He grabbed it from her hand and reached out to pull her in for a tight bear hug. “You take care of yourself, okay? No more fucking Kenyatta’s in your life.”

“Yessir, officer, sir!” She mock saluted him with a grin, and hugged him back. “You take care of yourself too. No more fucking accidents.” She muffled into his shoulder.

A car beeped outside and they drew apart.

“Cab’s here.”

“Guess that’s my cue.” Ian slung his backpack over his shoulder, took one final look around the small, bright kitchen, and headed out the door.

_Goodbye, Mick._

 

—————

 

**3:35 pm**

Mickey and Sean had just rounded the corner on to their street when the cab drove past them. Mickey had been laughing, punching Sean lightly in the back as he re-enacted Mickey’s grumpy demeanor on the bus ride.

“You don’t understand,” he whined in a cartoonish version of Mickey’s Chicagoan drawl, “I am the only one on the bus! I am the king of all the buses, and I demand you let me through!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey drawled, grinning, only half-noticing the nothing special cab approaching them, then passing them slowly, as it weaved around the cars parked on either side of the street. His eyes caught on a flash of color in the backseat and abruptly his heart dropped through the floor as his world froze.

 

—————

 

**3:35 pm**

As if in slow motion, Ian registered the two figures rambling down the street in the afternoon sun, laughing, punching each other, linking arms, shoving each other off, coming back together, as they stumbled along the sidewalk. One tall, dark haired, good looking, slender and strangely familiar; he stared for a minute trying to place the features that he seemed to know and yet didn’t, before turning his attention to the shorter, stockier, black-haired boy beside him.

_Mickey._

It was a physical blow, one that whooshed the air from his lungs and slammed him back against the seat in the rear of the cab as his eyes locked on Mickey’s and he turned, trying, trying, trying to hold on to the connection as long as he could, sliding his whole body around on the seat so he was kneeling on the cushion, staring doggedly out the rear window as his cab drove relentlessly on, until the car swung a left towards the station and Ian couldn’t see him anymore.

 

—————

 

**3:36 pm**

_What the fuck?_

Mickey doubled over, hands on knees, gasping for breath as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

 _What the fuck was that?_ As the cab had approached them he had caught a glimpse of red in the corner of his eye, and he turned involuntarily, as he always did when he spotted that particular color of fire, he supposed he always would. But instead of being a fucking bird, or a shirt, or one of the million and one other things it always was- a head had turned, green eyes had locked on his, and he had forgotten how to breathe.

Sean finally realized he was no longer beside him, and turned, a few paces ahead, with a look of concern when he saw Mickey bent over.

“Hey! Mickey! Are you okay?” Mickey tried to focus, and nodded his head at the ground, trying to respond with a husky "Yeah,”, before realizing speaking would require breathing, and his lungs or his heart or his head or whatever the fuck it was controlling him had decided not to allow that particular function to kick back in yet. Sean bounded over and rubbed his back, trying to get him to straighten.

“You sure? You gonna be sick? Need some water? I can run to the house.”

“Nah, nah man, I’m good, just give me a second.” He croaked, finally regaining control of his voice. “Must have been those hours on the bus, all those fucking fumes, I’m fucking seeing things.” A grin broke up the apprehension on Sean’s face as he helped Mickey stand.

“Here we go again with the bus. C’mon, let’s get you home.” He hoisted Mickey’s backpack on his shoulder and gripped him around the waist. “Almost there.”

 

—————

 

**3:45**

Ian sat slumped in the back of the cab, in the same position as he had fallen heavily into ten minutes before after seeing Mickey disappear around the corner.

_Shit._

It was so ironic; he had finally decided to walk away, come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to see him, and then- there he fucking was. Sean, he realized, that’s who the other boy was. He recognized him from the pictures at the house, so much taller and better looking than the photos gave him credit for. He had been so thrown by the sight of Mickey it had taken him some time to process the way they were tugging on each other, throwing each other around. It was the middle of the street in broad daylight, and yet somehow their play had seemed so intimate, so easy, he had felt like he was intruding.

“What?” He asked, suddenly aware that the motion of the cab had stopped.

“We’re here.” Ian looked out of the window at the grey, cement block building, the Greyhound buses pulling in and out of the entrance at the back.

“Oh, right, sorry.” He replied, flustered, pulling his battered wallet out of his back pocket. He started counting out the bills to pay the driver, then froze, suddenly unsure. “You know…I, uh, I think I might have forgotten something at the house. Maybe I should go back.” The cabbie looked at him impatiently, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe, or yes?” He said brusquely. “I’ve got other fares to pick up. In or out.”

Ian took a deep breath and put his wallet back in his pocket. He had come this far.

“In. Take me back."


	15. The Visitor

***8 months, 2 days, 6 hours**

 

Mickey slammed through the door, yelling for his sister before Sean could even drop the back packs on the kitchen floor.

“Mandy!” He bellowed, tearing through the house like a man possessed. “Mandy! Where the fuck are you?” He took the stairs two at a time when he heard a surprised, “Mickey?” echo down from upstairs. He stalked into her room to find Mandy folding laundry on the bed, looking flustered.

“What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow night.” He ignored her question and put his hand around her neck, slamming her against the wall.

“What the fuck did you do?” He growled menacingly, spitting the words out as he brought his face close to hers. “What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Do?” Mandy’s eyes filled with tears and she glanced around frantically, fear emanating from every pore. She gulped audibly against his hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She choked out finally, eyes locking on the doorway behind him. “Sean!”  Sean approached them swiftly, trying to pull Mickey’s iron grip away from his sister’s throat.

“Mickey! What the hell are you doing? Let go of her!”

“Back the fuck off Sean. This has nothing to do with you.” He snarled, easily pushing him away as he stumbled back on to the bed. He turned his attention back to his sister. “What the fuck was he doing here?” He hissed. “And don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Mickey!” Sean started again, pulling uselessly on his arm. “What are you talking about? Who was here?”

“She fucking knows, don’t you, you little bitch.” Mandy paused nervously before nodding slowly, dropping to her knees and gasping for breath as Mickey released her at the acknowledgment.

“I didn’t think you would know Mickey.” She whimpered lamely, rubbing at her throat. “You weren’t supposed to be here, you said you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” Mickey stared at her incredulously, fire in his eyes. He leaned over her hunched figure menacingly.

“So I go away for three fucking days and you think-“ The doorbell rang downstairs and they all jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Mickey kept his eyes locked on his sister as Sean straightened.

“I’ll be back in a second. Keep your hands off her, I’m serious. Whatever is going on between the two of you does not warrant you touching her.” He warned, glaring at Mickey. “Keep your hands to yourself.” Sean turned, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the stairs as he headed towards the front door. Mickey continued in a dangerously low voice as if there had been no interruption.

“You think; ‘I know what’s a good fucking idea. Let me invite Ian fucking Gallagher over for the weekend?’” Mandy mewled softly, holding her hands protectively over her head. She had fought her brother a thousand times before, but never like this. Never when he had his eyes burning into her like he could set her on fire and leave her burning to ashes if she said one wrong word.

“I’m sorry, Mickey.” She whispered finally, a sob in her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

He glowered at her, and in the silence they became aware of voices rumbling below them. Sean’s, warm and melodic, and then another voice, one as familiar to him as his own, answering back and sending shockwaves through to Mickey’s core. He looked at his sister, dread rolling off him in waves.

“You,” he croaked, stumbling back against the wall. “You did this.”

Mandy hung her head as Sean called up the stairs.

“Guys? You’ve got a visitor. Ian’s here.”

 

—————

 

Ian rubbed his hands together nervously as sat down on the couch he had vacated only an hour before.

“Sure I can’t get you a drink? Beer, coffee, water?” Sean asked, poking his head out from the kitchen. Ian turned to look at him, shaking his head.

“No, I’m good, honestly.” He tried to smile but was so fucking tense it came out as a grimace. _Relax, Ian._ “Thanks."

“Okay.” Sean said easily, coming to sit down on the sofa next to him. “So Chicago, huh? I was beginning to think Mickey and Mandy made that whole thing up. You’re the first real evidence of their Southside roots that I’ve seen.” He smiled, touching Ian lightly on his shoulder when the other boy didn’t respond. “I’m joking.”

“Oh,” Ian laughed tightly. It even sounded false to his ears. “Nope, it’s real. I think if they were going to invent a backstory it would be a bit more exciting than the slums of South Chicago.” Sean grinned appreciatively and nodded.

“True enough.”

“Ian?” Mandy’s strangled voice came from the stairs as she walked unsteadily into the living room. “What- what are you doing here? I thought you left.”

“Such a nice welcome!” Chided Sean playfully, giving Mandy a reproachful look. “You okay?” He murmured to her meaningfully, glancing back towards the stairs. She nodded roughly.

“Sorry, I mean, I thought you were catching the four o clock bus.”

“Yeah,” Ian replied awkwardly, not meeting her eyes. “I, uh, forgot something.” Mandy looked at him sharply, then tensed at the sound of Mickey’s heavy, deliberate footsteps following her down the stairs.

Ian held his breath as he came into view.

_Mickey._

He looked exactly the same, only completely different. He was wearing clothes he didn’t recognize, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, jeans that were a little too long. His black hair, pushed back messily from his forehead, the same ‘Fuck U-Up’ tattoos etched on those long fingers Ian had traced a million times before, swinging loosely by his side, those blue eyes, piercing, darting, looking everywhere except at Ian.

“Hey, Mick.” He uttered quietly, and he noticed a tiny pause in the confident stride as Mickey walked past him into the kitchen.

“Gallagher.” The sounds of the fridge opening and Mickey cracking a can of beer filled the silence, before he stomped nonchalantly back into the living room, settling into the couch opposite Ian and Sean. There was an awkward pause as Mickey downed the beer, then belched loudly. Still, he kept his eyes focused on everything but Ian.

 _Look at me, Mickey!_ He thought frantically, and as if he had heard him, Mickey lifted his eyes slowly and locked his gaze on Ian’s. The world paused it’s frantic spinning and an invisible line of thread snaked between the two boys, connecting them, linking them in a tense battle of wills.

Suddenly, Sean’s smooth voice broke into the taut silence.

“So we had a good time at the cabin, right Mickey?” He smiled, looking curiously between the two boys. Mickey blinked, a disconcerted look replacing the fierce stare he had held directed at Ian as he dropped his eyes and shifted back onto the couch, slinging his legs up on the coffee table between them. Ian felt the thread sever like a limb being cut off, and choked back a moan of pain.

“Cabin?” He asked shakily.

“Yep.” Mickey opened a second beer and gulped noisily before replying, eyes on the wall behind him. “Sean’s parents have a place up in the woods, a few hours from here.”

If anyone who didn’t know Mickey was listening they would think this conversation was normal, friendly even. Ian knew better, caught the edge in Mickey’s throaty voice, saw the shake of his hand as he put the can back on the table.

“Your parents?” He turned to Sean, confused.

“It’s nice. Nothing but woods and nature for miles.” Sean grinned. “We try to get up there as often as we can. No distractions, you know? Throw some wood in the fire pit, swim in the lake,” Ian caught the playful look Sean threw Mickey’s way and his stomach turned. _What the fuck did that mean?_ “We even have bears.”

“I didn’t see any fucking bears.” Mickey grumbled at Sean, looking directly at him as he finished his second beer.

“Well that’s my fault, I forgot to let them know you were coming.”

“Ho ho fucking ho.” Mickey said sardonically, knocking Sean lightly on the head as he passed, heading back into the kitchen for more beer.

“Don’t be rude Mickey. Offer one to everybody else.”

“You douchebags want anything?” Mickey sighed, his head in the fridge.

“I’ll take a beer.” Mandy answered in a small voice. Mickey pulled his head out to glare at her.

“Me too.” Ian said steadily. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on here with Sean and Mickey, but he needed something to take the edge of whatever it was.

“You’re drinking again Gallagher?” Mickey asked blithely, re-entering the room with four beers cradled in his arms.

“Yep, the meds I’m on…” He trailed off, glancing uncomfortably at Sean. “I can drink.”

“Well good for fucking you.” Mickey held the beer out to him, dropping it a second before their fingers touched. It crashed to the floor loudly.

“Mickey!”

“No, no worries Sean, I’ve got it.” Ian said, reaching down to grab the rolling can. Mickey tossed a beer forcefully to his sister and she caught it with a panful “Oof.” He walked over to Sean, offering him the next. Sean smiled up at him, pulling him down to smooth a stray piece of hair that had escaped from the tidy slick.

“Not for me. I’ve got work in a couple of hours, remember?” Mickey shrugged him off, returning to his seat.

“More for me then.” They settled back into an uneasy silence, Ian staring at Mickey as he worked intently on his drink. _Mickey!_ He thought urgently, desperately trying to raise the other boy’s head, to reconnect the broken thread between them. Ian didn’t know whether he didn’t hear him or just chose not to, but Mickey kept his face aimed steadfastly towards the floor, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“So Ian, tell me about the Southside.” Sean said finally, smiling openly at him. “Is it really as full as hookers and drug deals as these two deadbeats claim?”

 

—————

 

Mickey was pounding his eighth beer when Sean stood up, stretching noisily.

“Well kids, time for me to go.” He looked up at Sean in a panic, the alcohol dulling his reaction time, but not enough to ignore the fact that Sean leaving was a bad fucking idea. He had thought that being at the cabin was surreal, but _this?_ This was a fucking nightmare. He kept expecting Freddy Krueger to jump out of the shadows at any minute and chase him down to the basement, at least that would make more sense than this fucking shit show.

He could feel Ian’s eyes boring into the top of his head, as they had for the past two fucking hours straight. _I’m not looking at you again, asshole._ He thought viciously, flicking his eyes up to meet Sean’s instead. He had made that mistake early in the afternoon, determinedly keeping his eyes fixed away from the redhead on the couch until he felt an almost visceral pull towards him. Their eyes had locked and a sizzling heat had stretched between them, curdling Mickey’s insides and pulling him towards the boy opposite him until he had to physically restrain himself from leaping off the couch on top of him, clamping his hands down fiercely on the cushions to stop himself. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“No.” He bit out roughly. Sean ambled over to him, looking at him with a puzzled expression as he took in the pleading look in Mickey's eyes. He sat down on the arm of the chair next to Mickey and pulled him into his warm body.

“Aw, you gonna miss me? It’s only a few hours. Inventory shouldn’t take that long.” He felt the tension at their closeness emanating from Ian across the room, but still kept his eyes fixed on Sean.

“Can’t you call out fucking sick or something? Paul doesn’t really need you. I’m sure there’s a load of fucking cogs in the machine happy to make a few extra bucks.” Sean laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

“Gee, thanks man. Way to make a cog feel special.”

“I didn’t fucking mean it like that, I-“ Sean kissed him on the top of his head, ruffling his hair as he stood to leave.

“I know, I know. I’m just messing with you.” He turned to shake Ian’s hand. “Ian, it was a pleasure. I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning, right? You’re staying?” Mickey stared at Ian’s legs, watching him shift uneasily in his seat.

“Uh…no, I don’t know, I hadn’t really-“ _That voice again._

“You’re staying, I insist. If you leave now you won’t get back to Chicago until the middle of the night, and from the stories you’ve told me today, that is not a neighbourhood you want to be wandering around alone in at midnight.” Sean paused and Ian let out an unsteady breath.

“Okay, thanks.” Mickey watched as Sean walked to the bottom of the stairs, calling up to his sister.

“Mandy, I’m going! I’ll see you tomorrow.” A garbled response came from upstairs and Sean laughed as Mickey grimaced. Fucking lightweight. She had barely made it through five beers before stumbling drunkenly up the stairs half an hour ago. Mickey was cracking his ninth and barely feeling the effects at all, although that may have been more the result of the adrenaline pulsing through his veins than his high tolerance for shitty beer.

Mickey’s eyes followed Sean as he headed to the kitchen and started gathering his keys and phone. He leapt up to follow him in a panic, _don’t leave me!_ , stumbling as the beer put the world out of focus for a minute. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. He edged around the coffee table, so intent on catching up with Sean that he wasn’t as careful as he should have been. His leg brushed Ian’s, and they both jumped backwards as an electric current darted through them. “Fuck!” _Sean should not fucking leave._

“Sean, Sean.” Mickey said breathlessly, gripping his shoulders as he reached him in the kitchen. “Don’t fucking go, c’mon man. You weren’t scheduled to be there. Stay.” Sean frowned at Mickey, shrugging on his jacket.

“You know I can’t do that Mickey. Come on.” He placed his hands on either side of Mickey’s face. “What’s going on with you tonight? You okay?” Mickey dropped his eyes, shifting defensively from one foot to the other as he licked his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fucking great. Why wouldn’t I be? I just thought it would be…better, more fucking fun, you know? If you stayed.” Sean smiled and pulled Mickey to him for a kiss.

“You taste like a brewery, man. I’ll be back in a few hours, stay up and I’ll show you just how much fun I can be.” He winked as he ambled out of the house, the door banging shut behind him. _Shit._

Mickey exhaled slowly, turning to see Ian staring fixedly at him from the kitchen doorway.

“I’m going out for a smoke."


	16. This Is Why I'm Here

***8 months, 3 days**

 

_How the fuck did that happen?_

Mickey swiped fiercely at his mouth, trying to wipe away the memory of Ian’s lips pressed brutally against his own. _Shit!_ It was no good. The feeling was seared into his brain, taunting him, tormenting him. Lips on lips, fire in his belly, smoke curling up, up, up through his heart, clouding his brain. _Go back downstairs_ , a voice in his head murmured. “No!” he muttered savagely aloud, turning over in his bed and punching the pillow aggressively as he thrust his face into it and moaned. _Ian._ Why the fuck did he have to come here? He was doing so well! He was actually fucking happy. _Go back downstairs, Mickey._ “No.” He growled again tightly, head swimming.

He had settled on to the porch after Sean had left, lighting the first of many cigarettes that were sure to follow. He couldn’t be cooped up inside those four walls with fucking Gallagher, of all people. He felt like his head would explode at the prospect. Of course, the red head had fucking followed him outside, pulling a smoke out of the pack lying on the ground next to Mickey and lighting up, sitting a foot away from him on the concrete. The distance had felt like miles, and just a breath, at the same time. Shit.

They had made it through three consecutive smokes before Ian had spoken.

“So, you and Sean, huh?” His voice was thick, and the hand holding Mickey’s cigarette shook at the sound of it.

“Me and Sean.” He answered brusquely, staring solidly out into the setting sun. _Just don’t touch me, Gallagher. I can handle your fucking words but just don’t…fucking…_

“How long?” Ian answered, after a pause, and Mickey was thrown back to a million years ago, when Ian had sat opposite him, staring longingly at him through the glass of the juvenile detention center, asking him that same question. “I don’t know, they said a year right?” He had answered then but now he mumbled, “A lifetime.”, thinking of all the fucked up roads they had travelled since then.

“What?” Ian questioned, confusion and uncertainty in his voice.

“I don’t know man, a month? Two?” Mickey answered roughly, flicking his cigarette roughly and taking a swig of beer. Was this nine or ten? He had lost fucking count.

“So, you were together? When we…” Ian’s voice trailed off. “Talked?”

“No.” Mickey replied gruffly, glancing at Ian from the corner of his eye. “It was after that.” He crumpled the can and tossed it carelessly into the yard, thinking for a moment he was back in the Southside, where his whole fucking front porch was a trash can. “Shit.” He lurched to his feet unsteadily to collect it, growling “Don’t,” when Ian reached out a hand reflexively to steady him. “Fuck.” Ian snapped his outstretched hand back quickly, tucking it under his legs as Mickey grabbed the can, laying it back next to him and sitting down, further away than before from the boy folded next to him.

“Sean’s a great guy.” Ian said softly, after he had settled.

“Yes, he is.” Mickey agreed aggressively. “A really great fucking guy.”

“Hey man,” Ian said, holding his hands up defensively, “Not arguing with you. That’s what I said.” Mickey stared at his hands held up in the twilight. Those long, skinny fingers, so familiar, remembering the countless times they had wrapped around his as Ian had slammed into him from behind. Sometimes, during those moments of ecstasy, when Ian was hitting that spot that only he could reach, over and over, and Mickey’s head was spinning with feeling and every fucking nerve-ending in his body danced with fire, he had stared at those hands as if his life had depended on it, anchoring his sight on each knuckle and tendon as if he would float away without the concrete evidence of their humanity in front of him. He blinked quickly, turning his head away from the fingers, to look down the street at the passing cars.

Silence again, only it wasn’t silence, not really. Mickey felt like he could hear every fly buzzing in the air, every leaf blowing in the street, each inch that the sun squeaked lower in the sky. Most of all he heard the palpable crackle of electricity that had been shooting between them since that first moment in the cab all those hours ago. This was fucking exhausting. He couldn’t do it again.

“Why are you here, Ian?” He sighed, forcing himself to turn and look at the boy next to him for the first time in hours. Ian started, then smiled. “What the fuck are you smiling at?"

“You called me Ian.”

“Yeah, so? That’s your fucking name, isn’t it?”

“It’s just- never mind.” Ian exhaled, stubbing out the cigarette between his feet. “I came to see Mandy.” He said quietly, after a beat.

“Bullshit.” Mickey replied wearily, flicking the butt out of his hands. “If you’re not going to tell me the fucking truth I’ve got no time for you. I wasted enough of my life figuring out what was fucking fact or fiction with you, Gallagher. No more.” He moved to stand, and Ian shot out a hand, grasping solidly on to Mickey’s forearm. Mickey paused and stared down at the contact.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.” He ground out, shoving Ian away from him. Ian stood, approaching him with resentment blazing in his face.

“Why the fuck not, Mickey? You touched me, right? When I was in the hospital? You held my fucking hand, that’s what you said! I didn’t get a choice, did I? And now you do?” He shoved Mickey back, sending him stumbling unsteadily down the stairs. _Too many fucking beers, man._

“That was different.” Mickey retorted from the bottom step, “You were in a fucking coma.”

“Different, huh? Different, like I couldn’t say no? Or different like when you told Sean to stay tonight, but couldn’t find the fucking words to tell me not to enlist?!” Ian’s voice escalated with each word. “He gets a fucking essay about why he shouldn’t take a shift at the grocery store, but when I tell you I’m joining the army for four fucking years, all I get is ‘ _don’t_ ’?” Ian stalked down the steps and shoved Mickey so hard on the last word he crashed to the ground, slamming his face into the concrete and drawing blood in a bright, red gash across his cheek.

“What the fuck Gallagher?” Mickey snarled, wiping at the blood with his thumb and looking at the bright red liquid in surprise, remembering a day in the dugout where they began just like this, and ended somewhere completely different. Not today. “What the fuck are you bringing up all this old shit for?” Ian paced fiercely toward Mickey and hunched over him, staring bitterly into his eyes.

“I just think-“ He bit out furiously. “It’s really fucking _interesting_ how all these different rules apply with Sean. You his bitch Mickey? That what this is?” Mickey snarled angrily in response to Ian’s words, and swung his fist up to meet his face without thinking. He cracked into his cheekbone with a satisfying crunch, then pulled back his hand in shock as Ian stumbled backwards.

“Shit, Ian,” He pulled himself up off the floor and lurched towards him unsteadily. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I just-“ Ian’s closed fist crashed into his nose, and abruptly all cohesive thought left Mickey’s head. They were tumbling together, fighting, pawing at each other, kicking, punching, biting, choking. Ian rolled him over and held his hand at his throat, hissing breathlessly in his face.

"Want to know why I’m here Mickey? This is why I’m fucking here.” He slammed his lips on to Mickey’s and the taste of blood, and sweat, and Ian- _oh, fucking Ian_ \- sparked and blazed through Mickey’s head like a wildfire. He grappled at the boy on top of him, pulling him closer, trying to climb inside his skin as their tongues tangled together, moaning as they pressed their hard bodies together.

 _Yes! Yes!_ Mickey’s body screamed, pulling at Ian’s jacket, breathing him in desperately, frantically as they rolled together on the ground. 

“Mickey?” His sister’s distant voice slammed him into consciousness, and he pulled away from Ian, gasping for breath. _Fuck!_ “Mickey?” The voice called again, uncertainly, from inside the house.

“Get the fuck off me!” He snarled, shoving Ian away from him and stumbling to his feet. Ian lay dazed on the ground, eyes closed. “Get the fuck up.” He hissed, tossing an empty beer can at the red head, still lying as he had left him on the concrete.

“Mickey?” Mandy called for a third time. Mickey shook his head furiously at Ian and smashed through the kitchen door, snapping a furious “What the fuck is your problem?” at Mandy as he bulldozed past her, thumping up the stairs and into his room, where he slammed the door shut with a rage that had it rattling on it’s hinges.

And now, here he was. Two hours later. Restless and hard as fuck. What the hell had he been thinking? Damn fucking Gallagher. Every time he felt like his life could be something outside of the toxic fucking world they created together, something happened to fuck it up. Sean, Sean was good! Sean made him happy. He shook his head. He couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t. He was wrung out, exhausted, tired of this fucking rollercoaster. He wanted to be in control of something in his life for once, and ever since Gallagher and his fucking crowbar had crashed into his world he felt like he had been swimming upstream.

And yet, Ian. The feeling of their lips crashing together was like nothing else. His tall, muscular body pressed against his and that fucking word had popped right back into his mind. _Home._ Shit, would he never get over this fucking kid? Maybe not, maybe that was his answer right there. Maybe he and Gallagher were meant to drive each other crazy for the rest of their fucking lives. He had believed it once, maybe he still did. He sure as shit had believed it two hours ago when Ian’s tongue curled in his fucking mouth with the promise of ecstasy whispered behind it.

“You’re gonna marry me?” Ian had asked him, the day he had told him to leave. _If that’s what it fucking takes to make you mine_ , his mind had screamed, but he had bitten out an aching “Fuck you.” injured by the pain he already knew was on the horizon. But the highs were worth the lows, right? They were. What was life without those precious fucking highs? Those moments, lying quietly together in bed as the sun rose behind their heads, making Ian look like he was on fire as they tangled their fingers together above them and laughed softly. The fighting, because nobody could get him as mad as fucking Ian, and the making up- bloody and beaten, crashing back together as they always knew they would eventually. The thoughts swirled in a relentless tirade around his head.

Mickey rolled over and rubbed his eyes roughly. “Fuck.” Maybe he was making a mistake. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Milkovich’s didn’t deal well with maybe’s. He sat up slowly in bed, running his fingers through his hair. Time to find out.

He crept quietly out of his bedroom, easing the door shut gently behind him as he creaked down the hallway. It was so fucking dark, and he could hear Mandy’s heavy breathing through her closed door. _Ian, Ian, Ian_ , his heart thumped with every step, as he edged his way slowly down the staircase. In the moonlight filtering through the windows he could make out Ian’s long shape covered in blankets, his fire red hair lying messily on the arm of the sofa where he slept. Was he making the right decision? Who fucking knew. All he knew for sure was that he had to find out.

He reached out a hand and was millimeters from touching Ian’s shoulder, when the front door opened.

“Shit!” Mickey jumped a mile in the fucking air, his heart in his throat. Sean rounded the corner, holding up a hand in silent greeting.

“Hi.” He mouthed quietly, when Mickey gestured furiously at the sleeping Ian. “You waiting up for me?” He smiled.

“No, I uh- yeah. I was just getting some water.” Mickey muttered, cheeks flushing a dark red. “How was work?”

“Good,” Sean replied, opening his arms and giving Mickey a swift hug as he stood awkwardly in the embrace. “Home would have been better, you were right.”

_Home._

Mickey shrugged out of his grasp and turned to head up the stairs.

“I’m tired, tell me about it tomorrow.”

“Mickey?” Sean called after him softly as he grabbed a beer from the fridge. “What about your water?”

Mickey glanced briefly at Ian sleeping soundly on the sofa. _What a fucking mistake that would have been._

“I’m not thirsty anymore."


	17. Into The Woods

***8 months, 3 days, 4 hours**

 

Ian shifted restlessly on the couch, pulling at the tangled blankets twisted restrictively around his his limbs like a python.

“C’mon, c’mon!” He muttered. _Go to fucking sleep already._ He felt like he had been lying on this couch for days, mind swirling, body aching, although he knew it had only been a couple of hours. He reached up and touched the dried blood pooled at the side of his mouth, and his fingers skimmed over his lips, remembering.

 _“This is why I’m fucking here.”_ Had he really kissed Mickey? If it wasn’t for the ache in his joints and painful bump he could feel already swelling on his cheek where Mickey had landed the first of many punches he could almost believe he imagined the whole thing. But no, you couldn’t make up a kiss like that.

It had literally stunned him. When Mickey had shoved him away, yelling at him to get the fuck up, Ian had heard him, but his voice had felt too far away to properly register. Instead he had lain, dazed and gasping, on the concrete, until Mandy’s concerned face appeared above him. She lifted his head as she took in the smattered blood on his face and already bruising cheekbone, and tried to pull him up.

“What the fuck! Did my asshole of a brother do this to you? I’ll fucking kill him! I knew you shouldn’t have come back! I’m so sorry Ian. Mickey, you fucking prick!” She rambled on and on, pulling him alongside her into the house, while he stared blankly ahead of him, mind still frozen outside on the concrete, tumbling around and over and under and inside of Mickey, like he was drowning and the only way to survive was to latch on to this fucking air supply, _Mickey_ , and never let go. She had stopped talking eventually, and looked at him curiously. Had she asked him a question? _Shit_. He forced his mind to focus and opened his mouth to speak, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.

“Mandy, I’m fine.” He said huskily, clearing his throat. “It’s good. It wasn’t…Mickey. I mean, it was, but it’s fine. It was my fault.” Mandy stared at him, a hard edge creeping into the corner of her eyes.

“Don’t do this Ian.” She said softly. Ian raised his eyes to look at her in surprise.

“What are you talking about?” She appraised him, her gaze steady and direct. He flinched and looked away.

“I’m serious Ian. Don’t do this.” She shook her head slowly. “You two- it’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Ian.” Her voice was soft, but there was steel behind it. “Sean is good for him. He’s happy. You’re happy. Leave it alone.”

 _I’m not happy!_ Ian wanted to howl, but he clamped his lips together, saying nothing. Mandy pulled him in for a rough hug.

“I’ll get bandaids. I think there’s a first aid box around here somewhere that Sean’s mom-”

“No.” Ian said quickly, quietly. “I just- I just want to get some rest.” Mandy nodded and went over to the closet to pull out a blanket.

“Couch okay?” She had stayed in Mickey’s room when he slept in her bed the night before, but he guessed that was impossible now Mickey was back. Did that mean Mickey wasn’t sleeping in Sean’s room? It didn’t matter. He shook his head, clearing his muddled thoughts. Mandy was right.

And yet, as he lay there hours later, tossing and turning sleeplessly on the narrow couch, he couldn’t remember exactly why she was right. Ian had battled exhaustingly, heartbreakingly uphill for years with Mickey in the beginning, getting him to admit he loved him, he wanted him, he was gay. Over and over they had fought, and fucked, and left, and come back together, almost destroying each other in the process, but it had all been worth it for their brief moment of happiness in the sunlight when all the stars finally fucking aligned. They had loved each other openly and cleanly for one single, damn, glorious minute, and the world made sense for the first time in his life. Then, boom; Ian’s fucking diagnosis, and he had lost it all again. It had slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, no matter how hard he had tried to hold on.

So, why shouldn’t they be together now? Sure, they were explosive. They detonated randomly and without provocation, scattering debris and devastation over each other and those around them with a moment’s notice. He knew that, he wasn’t stupid. But he also knew that life without those explosions, even now he was happy, and healthy, and taking his meds, and making the right fucking choices for fuck’s sake; life without Mickey was grey. He had thought he was stuck in a hopeless, never-ending fog in those initial, black, miserable months of adjustment to his meds, but _this_? This was so much worse. How could he live without color when he had staggered around in the blinding spectrum of technicolor light that was Mickey fucking Milkovich for the past five years? Mickey had been his focus and his joy for as long as he could remember. Nothing made sense.

 _Sleeeeeep._ He intoned, soundlessly. _Sleeeeeep Ian._ He had, in the beginning. Fallen, drained and shattered, into the pile of blankets Mandy had placed on the arm of the sofa. Within a second he was out, waking a couple of hours later to the sounds of Mickey and Sean talking in low voices above him.

“I’m not thirsty anymore.” He heard Mickey mumble, then tensed when he felt the air shift around him as Mickey left the room. The silence settled over him like a blanket, and he listened to the distant sounds of Sean shrugging off his jacket, placing his keys on the counter, gulping back a beer. Ian held as still as he could and kept his breathing steady, as he felt Sean enter the room and sit on the couch opposite him. The last thing he wanted was a conversation, with Sean of all people. He kept his eyes closed and feigned sleep.

“I know who you are.” Sean said quietly, and Ian could feel his eyes on him. He paused, waiting for a response. Ian kept his eyes shut tightly. “I just had to know, you know? If Mickey…” He trailed off, and after a minute placed his drink on the table, standing up with a sigh. He headed upstairs, and Ian released a long breath.

 _I’m sorry, Sean_. He was- Sean was a good guy, he could see why the Milkovich's liked him. But this was Mickey. How could he not have at least tried?

With that thought racketing loudly around his tired head, it was a surprise he heard the quiet footsteps inching slowly down the stairs and through the living room at all. _Sean again?_   Ian tensed as they passed his head, but continued on without pausing into the kitchen. A second later he heard the creak of the side door and the footsteps picking up pace as they pounded down the steps outside. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. That wasn’t Sean.

 _Mickey._ He snapped into awareness and clambered off the couch, yanking the tangled covers off him as he wrenched on his shoes, pulling them on, hopping unsteadily, as he moved through the kitchen after Mickey. He had slept in his clothes but couldn’t see his jacket. _Shit! No time._ He banged out of the side door after Mickey, just in time to see his dark head disappearing around the corner at the end of the street. Fuck, it was cold!

It was still early, Ian guessed 4:00am, maybe five at a push, and without the warmth of a jacket or the sun’s rays he shivered in the dewy air. He rounded the corner and saw Mickey half a mile down the road already, head down, shoulders hunched against the chilly breeze. _Where are you going, Mick?_ He picked up his pace and began narrowing the distance between them as he followed the dark-haired boy under an avenue of trees.

 _Go as fast as you want_ , Ian thought evenly, as he traced his path into the woods. He wouldn’t lose him now.


	18. This Is Everything

***8 months, 3 days, 5 hours**

 

Mickey sat down heavily on the bleachers and leaned back, exhaling slowly. He took in the empty baseball field below him in the early morning dusk; the green grass, the dull, sandy lines stretching between each padded base. If only life were this clearly mapped out. _1st base, 2nd base, 3rd base, Home._ You knew exactly where you were heading, all you had to worry about was deciding when to run.

“Shit!” The sound of footsteps banging on the bleachers below him made him jump out of his skin, and he turned swiftly, body tense and curled for attack. He recognized the shock of red hair in the dim light and exhaled forcefully as his body relaxed. “Fuck, Ian! You scared the crap out of me!”

Ian didn’t reply, keeping his gaze locked on Mickey as he approached slowly, springing up the rows of metal seats two at a time. Mickey watched the graceful movement, biting his lip, before clearing his throat and looking away. Ian settled down one row below Mickey, and looked out over the empty field.

“Nice.” He said appreciatively, his voice humming in the hush of the approaching dawn.

The two boys sat silently, watching the clouds roll slowly through the sky as the first glimpse of morning sun peaked on the horizon.

“I come here sometimes.” Mickey said eventually, flicking the end of his cigarette away and squinting into the distance. “Got lost in the fucking woods when I was hammered once, stumbled on to this place. No one’s ever here, except me.”

“And me.” Ian replied softly.

“Yeah...and you.”

They lapsed back into silence. It was so quiet they could hear the birds chattering in the trees and a rustling in the woods around them; probably a raccoon, Mickey thought distractedly. Ian turned to him suddenly, pulling him out of his wandering thoughts with a low, intense voice which broke suddenly into the stillness of the woods like the crack of a gun.

“Mickey, I’m better now, at least- I’m getting there.” Mickey didn’t respond and Ian looked at him intently for a reaction. Nothing. He stared blankly out at the trees, not really registering the blanket of green and brown in front of him. “I’m taking my meds, I see my doctor, I know what I have, alright? And I’m learning how to fucking have it and still be me. I’m so much better. When I saw you the last time, I don’t mean when you saw me, that doesn’t count, I mean, I was unconscious…” Ian tumbled over his words, laughing nervously, trying to get them out with a sense of urgency he didn’t understand. The laughter died in his throat. "I mean, when I told you to go-“ He paused, and Mickey finally cocked his head to look at him with a detached expression on his face, squinting at the sun rising leisurely behind Ian’s head, setting his hair on fire.

Ian turned fully to him and stood, stepping up the final level until he was in line with Mickey, leaning over until his face was in Mickey’s face, and he blocked out the blazing sun entirely. _Ian Gallagher officially eclipsed the sun_ , Mickey thought with a wry smile, and concentrated on breathing. In, and out, in, and out, in, and- “I’m sorry I broke up with you. It was- I made a mistake.”

_There it was._

“Okay.” Mickey shrugged, pushing Ian gently but firmly away from him, and standing up to walk calmly down the bleachers.

Ian stood frozen for a beat, momentarily stunned, staring at Mickey’s departing back. He eventually found his voice.

“Hey-“ He sprinted down the stairs after Mickey, pulling on his shoulder to spin him around when he reached him on the grass. “Hey!”

“What?” Mickey said expressionlessly, lifting a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it calmly as he shrugged off Ian’s grasp.

“That’s all you’re going to say? Okay?” Mickey looked at Ian blankly. Maybe it was the exhaustion of the past few days, maybe it was too little far too fucking late, or maybe he was just done; either way Mickey couldn’t seem to rouse any emotion to Ian’s words beyond a basic acknowledgment of their existence. The fight had officially left Mickey Milkovich for the first time in his life. _Whatever_. It didn’t make any difference. He knew what he had to do. Better not to complicate things.

He pulled on his cigarette and crouched behind home plate, miming catching a ball as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, laughing to himself. He felt utterly detached and high as a fucking kite.

“Yeah?” He answered Ian, amused by his own clearly fucking awesome baseball skills as he dove to catch an invisible fast ball. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him, so he turned to face him impatiently. Ian was looking at him like he’d lost his mind. _Not so much fun being the fucking sane one, is it?_ He thought with a sudden flash of rage, then shrugged it off just as quickly, snickering to himself. “What do you want me to say?”

 

—————

 

Ian stared at him, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. It looked like Mickey, it sounded like Mickey, and yet it was like a fucking alien had taken over his body. Where was the rage he was used to? Where was the tension? The strength? The aggression? The fucking sanity? What the fuck was going on? He bent down to where Mickey was crouching down like a fucking all-star, throwing and catching with a look of determination on his face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the world series. He tried again.

“I want you to say-“ He growled in his face, shoving him onto the sand, desperate for some response. “I want you to say ‘I understand’. I want you to say ‘I know why you did it.’ I want you to say ‘We’ll figure it out.” I want you to say More. Than. Fucking. OKAY.” His voice rose as he reached the end of his speech, and he watched as Mickey calmly picked himself up off the dirt, brushing the sand from his jeans. How many times had they been here before? Ian, laying it all desperately out on the line, begging for some fucking sign that Mickey Milkovich gave the smallest of shits about him. And yet, this time it felt so different. It scared him.

“I understand. I know why you did it. We’ll figure it out.” Mickey repeated robotically, staring into the sun again.

Ian approached him swiftly, crashing him against the cage behind them with a harsh rattle of metal that shattered the silence around them. They winced, both of them still sore from the wounds inflicted hours earlier.

“I know you’re in there, asshole. I felt it tonight. I’m coming for you.” Ian hissed forcibly, before slamming his mouth to Mickey’s. He pressed against him, feeling Mickey’s breath quicken beneath his, his heart pounding rapidly in the chest jammed against his own, but still; nothing. He pulled back to see Mickey staring at him dispassionately, as he pushed Ian off him.

“I’m not doing this again.” Mickey said quietly, and turned to walk away. It took Ian a second, but within a breath he was sprinting after Mickey, spinning him around, shoving him to the ground. He straddled him breathlessly, clamping his legs tightly around Mickey as he struggled beneath him.

“The hell you’re not.” He breathed, bringing his face down to Mickey’s. Every impulse in his body wanted to slam his mouth into Mickey’s again, work him over, claim him. They were at their best when their passion straddled the boundaries of good and dangerous, but there was a wall in Mickey’s eyes he had to break down first. Not the one built of fear, like in the early days of Terry and denial. Not even the one built of protective love that had come later, when Ian first became ill, and Mickey had danced around him like a fucking pussy, afraid he would break him. This wall was built on well-thought out decisions, and time, and acceptance, and was the most dangerous one of them all. Ian had to break it down as fast as he fucking could. 

He kneeled over him, clasping him with his thighs, lying almost chest to chest on top of him as he held his face millimeters from Mickey’s own. He paused.

“Look at me, Mickey.” He said softly, and Mickey struggled beneath him, glancing around everywhere but his face. _Come on Mick._

“What the fuck are you doing, Ian?” He asked, annoyance clear in his tone.

“Look at me.” Ian repeated, staring into his face. _Christ, he had missed this fucking face._

“Get the fuck off me! Fuck!” Mickey began to struggle in earnest, pushing at the boy on top of him. Ian didn’t say anything, pressing his forearm against Mickey’s throat to restrain him as he bore down into his eyes. _Come on Mick! I know you’re in there._

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey choked out viciously, finally raising his furious eyes to meet Ian’s as he gasped for air. It was like a curtain falling, Ian could almost see the transparent sheen clearing from Mickey’s savage blue eyes, as his heated stare met his own steady gaze. The invisible threads he had been searching for grew between them, reaching out between their bodies, grasping, holding, pulling, merging, until Ian wasn’t sure where he ended and Mickey began. _Yes!_

Mickey kneed him in the chest and threw him off easily, growling “Fuck you”, but it wasn’t a rejection. Ian rolled away in the dirt, clutching his ribs, wheezing, whooping in delighted, breathless relief, as Mickey clambered after him in the dirt on all fours, pulling him towards him, grappling at his shirt as he practically lifted Ian up off the floor, slamming him into the baseball cage behind him.

This time it was Mickey who crushed his mouth into Ian’s, opening their mouths violently as their tongues battled, Mickey gripping his hands to the metal fence behind Ian so tightly he felt caged and struggled to breathe. He bit down on Mickey and tasted blood as Mickey snarled away from him, throwing him on the ground as he wiped his mouth and spat in the sand at his feet. Ian reached up and jerked him down towards him, and then they were rolling, biting, grabbing, ecstatically against each other. Ian tried unsuccessfully to steady himself as he pulled aggressively at Mickey’s jacket, _get it off! get it off!_ , yanking at the shirt underneath so violently he heard it tear.

“Shit.” Somebody moaned breathlessly. _Who said that? Him or Mickey?_ He didn’t care, dragging his mouth away from Mickey’s bruising assault only long enough to rip his own shirt off his head, crashing his body back against Mickey’s in the sand the second he was free of it. _Yesssssss._ Skin against skin now, they clawed desperately at each other, marking each other with teeth and frenzied hands, gripping, sliding, bruising each other. _Good_ , Ian thought desperately. _Mark me, I’m yours. I’ve always been fucking yours._

He rammed a hand between their entwined bodies, fumbling at Mickey’s belt, tearing at the button, the zipper, until finally he forced his way into Mickey’s boxers, where he gripped a need as strong his own. Mickey physically convulsed in shock at the touch, bucking away from Ian, then slamming back towards him, rolling him over so Ian panted frantically beneath him, grinding his hand and his thigh and everything he fucking could between Mickey’s legs. He was vaguely aware of his own zipper opening, and then Mickey’s rough hand found him and he was aware of nothing else.

 _This, this, this._ He thought dazedly, as stars exploded behind his eyelids. _This is everything._

They had always loved each other violently, the pain mixing brutally with the pleasure, but this desperation was like nothing either of them had ever felt before, even with each other. They ground against each other, more intent than ever on destroying any barriers between them, kicking off shoes, jeans, everything they could, without pausing for breath or taking a grasping hand or wild eye off each other.

Finally free, they surged against each other, out of time now, need and desire blurring the edges of their consciousness as Ian shoved Mickey on his back, spreading his legs, and thrusting into him as if both of their lives depended on it.

—————


	19. You Talk Too Much

***8 months, 3 days, 7 hours**

 

The two boys fell apart, gasping and laughing, clutching at their chests breathlessly as they lay in the dirt, staring up at the lightening sky as they tried to focus.

“What the-“

“I don’t know.” Ian gasped out with a grin, turning his head to look sideways at the boy lying on the ground next to him. Mickey’s chest was heaving, his face glowing with perspiration and something else…something extroadinary, something Ian didn’t have a word for, and yet understood completely, because he felt it, too. “That was-“

“Yeah.”

They lay, trying to slow their racing hearts and catch their breath, as the undercurrents still charging through them finally began to ebb, eventually resting at a constant hum. Mickey had one hand on his chest, the other lying between them in the sand, and Ian rested his hand next to it, a breath away. He felt like if they actually touched, the buzz of electricity gently vibrating through the ground between them would ignite, and cause a spark that would consume them both in seconds. It didn’t matter anyway, they were so connected they couldn’t have been more in tune to each other’s bodies than if they shared the same skin.

“First base, second base, third base, home.” Mickey mumbled thickly next to him, and Ian cocked his drowsy head to look at him fully.

“What?”

“I was thinking, before, you know,” He murmered, soberly, “baseball...it’s the same damn game every time, the only thing that changes is when everybody decides to fucking run.” Ian propped himself up on his elbow, smiling at his unusual choice of conversation.

“That’s not true Mick. You’ve gotta see what kind of ball you get pitched. And if you get a hit. That makes a difference too.” He wasn’t sure where Mickey was going with this, but he seemed pretty damn focused.

“Hmmm…” Mickey mused, biting his lip thoughtfully, a frown creasing his forehead. “But at the end of the day the balls get thrown, and everybody fucking runs. Even if it’s only because they’re forced to, because the runner behind them is moving right on up their ass.”

“Okay Mick,” Ian laughed, indulgently. “Whatever you say.” He lay back in the dirt, hands up on his chest again, feeling his pounding heart skipping around in his chest.

He felt more alive than he had in years, maybe ever. Even with his eyes closed, he could see Mickey as clearly as the sun sitting low in the sky, hear his labored breathing, smell the rich, unmistakeable scent that was so purely him, everywhere, all over him. It smelled of passion, and truth, and life, and the very essence of Mickey fucking Milkovich at his rawest. _Thank God_ , he thought, an ecstatic smile breaking over his face. _Thank you God_. Damn, how had he lived without it for so long? He blinked open his eyes to see Mickey staring at him intently, studying his face with a piercing deliberation that made Ian’s toes curl.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Mickey said gruffly, running his eyes down Ian’s chest, his stomach, all the way to his toes and back again. “Just…thinking.” A latent fire began to stir in Ian’s belly again as Mickey’s gaze paused midway up his body, and he felt a palpable twitching in his groin that was impossible to conceal as he lay naked in the dawning sun. Mickey cocked an amused eyebrow and his eyes shot up to Ian’s face.

“Really?”

“It’s not my fault, just stop- stop looking at me like that, and we won’t have a problem.” Ian flushed, reaching for the nearest piece of clothing lying scattered a few feet away in the grass, and throwing it over himself. Mickey reached over as soon as it settled on his skin and yanked it away from him, tossing it in the dirt behind them.

“Hey-“

“Don’t.” Mickey said slowly, staring at him fixedly. “Don’t do that. I don’t want you to do that.” Ian forced himself not protest as he lay, arms behind his head, looking up at the sky. He felt Mickey’s eyes boring into him, and the wave of exultation washed over him again as he remembered where he was. Here, with Mickey. _At fucking last._

He twisted his body and lay on his side, watching Mickey light a cigarette and exhale a cloud of smoke into the air above them. God, he was beautiful.

“Mickey, that was-“

“Yeah. I know.”

“So, that changes things.” Ian said quietly, with the echo of a confidence he didn’t feel. Fuck, why was he so nervous? He felt like that little kid again, who had put his hand up against the glass in Juvie so many years ago, stuttering out an awkward _“I miss you.”_ to the dark haired boy on the other side, praying the honesty didn’t destroy the fragile hold he had on him, but unable not to say the words. Mickey didn’t reply, and Ian felt a swelling panic in his gut. “I mean, obviously…right? That was, it was different. You were-“

Mickey turned to squint at him, and Ian felt his heart stiffen when he saw an indecipherable look in his eyes. It wasn’t rejection, but it wasn’t the same open contentment he was sure was reflected in his own, either. “Mickey?”

“Let’s just fucking be here, okay?” He uttered finally. Ian lay still but his heart picked up a frantic rhythm. _You have to be fucking kidding._

“What?” He stuttered. “Wha- no! Let’s just be here? What the hell does that mean? Don’t mess me around Mickey. What the fuck is it? Is it Sean?” Mickey barked out a surprised laugh, choking on the mouthful of smoke he had just inhaled.

“Sean?!” He laughed, incredulously. “You think this is about Sean?” Ian bristled at his words, clambering on to his knees and reaching again for the shirt lying discarded behind their heads. A hand clamped solidly around his wrist, and he looked up to see Mickey crouching over him.

“I. Said. Don’t.” He bit out, flicking his cigarette away and flipping Ian over on to his back with a thud.

“Ow.” Ian ground out, pissed at the show of dominance. “Get off me Mick.”

“Fucking Sean?” Mickey repeated again, ignoring his demand and leaning in close to his face. “Ian, it was over with Sean the second I saw your dumbass fucking carrot top disappearing around the corner in that cab.” He blew out a tense breath, raising his eyes to meet Ian’s apprehensive gaze. “Shit, let’s be honest.” He paused, frowning to himself, brushing sand out of his hair so casually, it was clearly anything but. "It was never anyone but fucking you.”

Ian smiled into his shoulder, rolling back with Mickey as he pulled them together, lying chest to sweaty chest, feet curled around feet, and everything else pressing forcefully together in between.

“So then, you, I mean, what does that- are we-“ Mickey grasped the back of his neck tightly, pulling him down to meet his lips, cutting off his rambling thoughts as his tongue searched deeply and languorously in every cavern of his mouth. _Ohhh fuck._ A tingling warmth began in Ian’s toes and spread throughout his body, causing his fingers to flex involuntarily around Mickey’s chest as his body began humming with gentle vibration. This feeling…it was _overwhelming_. He tasted Mickey in every fiber of his being, each muscle tensed and alive, trying to clamp down on the devastating wave of pleasure and arousal flooding through his veins.

“You know what, Firecrotch?” Mickey growled, wrenching his mouth away from Ian's, who moaned deliriously in protest. Mickey pushed him on to his back and began trailing a rough path down his chest with hands, fingers, lips, tongue, everywhere. Ian jerked his pulsing groin forward involuntarily, releasing a guttural moan as he threaded his fingers desperately through Mickey’s hair and pushed him on. "You talk too fucking much.”

 

—————

 

Mickey concentrated on keeping his breathing steady as he lay with Ian in the dirt.

The redhead had passed out cold after their second round, the physical and emotional exhaustion of their reunion knocking him into a deep sleep minutes after they had cried out their earth-shattering release, less violent than the first, but no less desperate, no less devastating. Perhaps it was because the frantic urgency that had swept them furiously on in a dazed whirlwind was less of a surprise the second time, or perhaps it was because Mickey knew what was coming after it, he wasn’t sure; but either way he had made himself concentrate fiercely on every breath, every touch, every smell and every emotion as he and Ian had climbed together to ecstasy. He knew he would revisit this memory a million times in the days ahead no matter how hard he tried not to, and he wanted to remember every fucking second.

He eased his arm gently from underneath Ian’s head, freezing nervously as his deep breathing stuttered momentarily at the movement, before settling back into it’s gentle rhythm. Shit, that was close. This would be much easier if Ian stayed asleep. His head was too thick, too dull with exhaustion, for any type of confrontation or activity outside of the task he faced now.

He stood up stiffly and began walking quietly around home plate, picking up pieces of clothing, slipping those belonging to him onto his chilled body one at a time, laying Ian’s gently on top of the sleeping boy for warmth, trying desperately not to disturb him. He found a pair of jeans over by first base, a sock resting next to second- how the fuck had that happened? He smiled involuntarily at the memory of them tearing at each other, ridding themselves of all the unwelcome layers keeping them apart, then the smile died on his lips as he turned to watch Ian snoring softly in the early morning light.

Shit, this was _hard_. Harder than even he had anticipated. He had known it would be, even as he had known it would happen, knew it was the only eventuality for them as soon as Ian muttered those inevitable words; “it was a mistake.” He knew it just as he had known Ian would follow him out of the house, as he had known their paths would cross again eventually, somewhere, somehow, since their eyes had met through that hospital door glass all those months ago. Indiana, Chicago, Sean, Mandy- the specifics were irrelevant, this moment, this choice, would be his, he had always known with heartbreaking certainty.

He had hoped to avoid this, the reawakening of joy they had just shared that could only lead to greater devastation in the wake of his departure, for him as much as Ian. For he loved Ian, had always loved Ian, and he could break up with Mickey a thousand times, shattering his heart into a million unrecognizable fragments over and over again, and Mickey would still find a way to patch it back together so he could love him again.

Ian was getting better, he could see it. He didn’t doubt the certainty in his voice, he could see it in the way Ian held his head, the light that was finally back in those beautiful fucking eyes that had been lying, dull and lifeless, in Ian’s face in the months before he had left Chicago. But he was still figuring the last pieces of the puzzle out, and Mickey, with the meager offerings of useless love and pitiful street smarts to his name, could only ever hold him back.

 _I’m sorry, Ian_ , he thought achingly, rubbing roughly at the dampness in his eyes. _I’m doing this for you, don’t you see?_ He pleaded silently, hands outstretched instinctively to the boy in front of him. But that wasn’t true either, not entirely. It was for himself as much as anyone else. Mickey looked like he had it all together, sure, but it was all a big, fat fucking lie. He had been swimming in a fog, going through the motions and faking normalcy, even happiness, during the past few months, all the while just waiting, waiting, waiting unconsciously for this moment that he knew would come.

But the alternative? He could see it now- he would go back to Chicago with Ian, and they would slip into their old life, seemingly easily. Sleeping on couches, sharing Ian’s tiny bed at the Gallagher fucking hotel, or staying at Terry’s house if it was empty, drifting between places as the wind blew them and necessity enforced. Ian working, Mickey hanging around uselessly, filling his days with pieces of shit activity or ‘errands’ with his brothers to earn some extra cash. They would be happy, at least at first, until the cracks would begin to show again. Ian’s frustration with Mickey’s complete lack of direction and personality outside of their fucking relationship, Mickey’s frustration with himself. What had happened to him? He wasn’t Ian’s caretaker anymore- he didn’t need one. But he didn’t entirely feel like the hard, fight-at-the-drop-of-a-hat street thug he had thought he was for the first 18 years of his life either. So who the fuck was he?

Mickey didn’t know, and it was time to figure that shit out. Figure out who the fuck he was, or else spend the rest of his waste of an existence molding around what ever shit show of a situation life decided to throw at him that month.

He couldn’t do it here, not with Sean, who was a good guy, but just the wrong fucking guy, and not with his sister watching him, her expectations of who he was placed squarely on his shoulders, no matter how lovingly. He couldn’t do it back in Chicago, where the Milkovich family name branded him like a cattle iron wherever he went. And, most of all, he couldn’t do it with Ian.

He looked out over the baseball field at the bleachers, at the woods beyond, exhaling deeply. _What time was it?_ By the way the sun was sitting, low but firmly established in the sky, he would say seven, maybe eight. Had they really only been here a couple of hours? It felt like a lifetime. He shook his head, trying to wake himself up. Sean and Mandy would be stirring soon. He better get a move on.

He took a final look at Ian, watching the way his gentle breathing made the clothes heaped messily over his naked body rise and fall in a steady rhythm. _Remember this, remember this_ , he chanted silently in his head like mantra.

"Goodbye, Ian.” He breathed quietly, then turned and stalked away back into the woods.


	20. One Way

Ian stirred, rubbing his eyes with a noisy yawn as he woke from the deepest sleep he’d had in months. He stretched, wincing as his bruised body ground against the rough sand pressing into his bare back. Where the hell was he? _Oh-_

“Mick?” He murmured, smiling as he squinted against the sun blazing brightly in the sky overhead. “Mick?”

When there was no response he opened his eyes fully, taking in the empty baseball field around him, the deserted woods. His smile faded and he pushed himself up, the clothes piled haphazardly over him falling away as he stumbled to his feet.

“Mickey?” He called more loudly, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. “Mickey! Where are you?” He pulled on his boxers, his pants, as his eyes searched the bleachers and the dugout. “This isn’t funny. Where the fuck are you?” Still no response. He tugged his shirt over his head and picked his jacket up from the dirt, fumbling in the pockets for his phone. _Fuck_! It was after nine already. He scrolled quickly through his contacts until he got to Mickey, clicking on his name and pressing the phone to his ear as he pulled on his shoes and started pacing towards the rough path he had traced after Mickey a few hours earlier. Voicemail.

“Mickey, it’s me. I just woke up. I- where are you man? Call me back.” _Shit_.

 _He probably went back to the house_ , Ian told himself with more confidence than he felt. But his heart had picked up a slow, fearful pounding, and his steady pace increased to a jog, then a sprint as he raced through the trees back to the house, dread climbing with every step.

 

—————

 

“Mickey? Mandy? Mandy!” Ian burst through the door into the kitchen, where Sean was standing clutching a cup of coffee. He eyed Ian’s disheveled appearance, taking in the leaves in his messy hair and remnants of sand still clinging to his clothes.

“Ian.” He said calmly, sipping his drink slowly. “Coffee?”

“No- I, have you seen Mickey?” Sean eyed him coolly.

“Not since last night. Have you?” He replied steadily, cocking his head to one side as Mandy limped blearily down the stairs, rubbing her eyes.

“Ian, were you calling me?” She asked, reaching for the coffee in Sean’s hands. “Ugh. I feel like I got run over by a fucking truck. I only had a couple of beers. I don’t know why-“

“Have you seen Mickey?” Ian interrupted, pacing through the living room. The urgency in his tone made her pause, and she turned to look at him.

“No.” She said slowly, putting down the coffee. “Why?”

“We were-“ He paused mid-sentence, looking uncomfortably at Sean. “together.” He finished awkwardly, too wound up to think of a better explanation. “I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up he was gone. Mickey?” He called again. Mandy eyed him appraisingly, then glanced sideways at Sean.

“Relax, doofus, he probably came home and went to bed. I’ll go check.” She turned and headed back up the stairs, taking up Ian’s call. “Mickey?”

Ian stood uneasily in the kitchen as Sean stared at him.

“He didn’t sleep in my bed.” Sean said quietly. “First time in weeks.” Ian licked his lips, not meeting his eyes. He would have probably felt more guilty if fear wasn’t overriding every other emotion in his body.

“I-“

“He’s not there.” Mandy said, anxiety and confusion in her voice as she tripped back into the kitchen. “Nothing is there. His stuff, his room is empty. I don’t understand. What happened, Ian? Where-“

Ian was already sprinting up the stairs Mandy had just rushed down, heart thudding in his chest. He had to see for himself.

He slammed into Mickey’s room, vision turning black as he took in the empty drawers, the vacant closet. The bedside table which had been scattered the day before with scraps of paper, odd coins, and empty packets of cigarettes now lay heartbreakingly bare. There was no evidence of life, no sign that Mickey had ever been here, left in this room at all. It was all…gone.

_Not all of it._

His eyes lit on the one remaining testimony that this place had been Mickey’s, lying, carefully placed, on his pillow. His heart dropped to the floor and shattered as he fell to his knees, reaching for the final affirmation that their love had reached it’s conclusion.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation Ian.” Mandy rounded the corner speaking quickly, trying to sound reassuring. "He probably took an extra shift at the store and forgot to mention it. His clothes…I don’t know why he would…it doesn’t matter. I’m calling the store. He’ll be there, you’ll see.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and started dialing.

“Don’t.” Ian said quietly, eyes fixed on the object in his hands.

“What?”

“I said, don’t. He’s not there.”

He turned the ROTC training book over in his hands, numbly flicking through the pages until he found the crumpled photograph wedged inside. He pulled it out and the world blurred around him as his heart stilled.

“He’s gone.”

 

—————

 

“Maine.”

“What?”  Mickey looked up from his phone, where he had been silencing the fifth call in a row from Mandy.

“The next bus, it’s going to Maine. Leaves in five minutes.”

Maine. He knew nothing about Maine.

“How far away is Maine from here?” The Greyhound bus attendant looked at him curiously.

“I’d say…800 miles, give or take. About as far North as you can get.”

800 miles. He could do that.

“Okay.”

“Okay you want the ticket?”

“Yes, I want the fucking the ticket.” He snapped, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out some bills and turned to face her, registering the offended raise of her eyebrows. “Sorry, sorry, bad morning.”

“Hmmm.” She acknowledged loftily, then softened as she saw the pleading look in his eyes. “Return?” He paused.

“One way.” He answered gruffly. She took the bills from his hands and handed him his ticket and change.

“Gate 33. I would head over there now, sometimes the drivers like to leave a little early if there’s nobody waiting.”

“Thanks.” He replied, stuffing the money in his pocket as his phone started to ring again. Ian, this time.

He stared at the screen for a moment, frozen, heart beating steadily in his chest. He slowly pressed his thumb down on the keypad, watching as the screen darkened and the phone turned off. He turned and threw it in the garbage can behind him.

Gate 33.

 

 

-


	21. One Year Later

**One Year Later**

 

***One year, 8 months**

 

“So the reason I called you in here today, Ian, is-“ Ian leaned nervously forward in the chair, tapping his foot anxiously on the navy blue rug.

“Are you firing me?" He interrupted breathlessly. "Because I’ve been working really hard and I-“ Ian trailed off uncertainly as the uniformed man across the desk laughed in surprise, shaking his head.

“No Ian, quite the contrary.” Ian let out a tense breath in relief and relaxed back into his seat. “In fact, the other officers and I are very aware of how hard you’ve been working. Putting in extra hours outside of your scheduled shifts, spending time in the training yard with the cadets, maintaining excellent standards of care in regards to your presentation and work station. Several of your colleagues and trainees have approached us to make us aware of the situation.”

“Oh…” Ian frowned incomprehensibly at his commanding officer. “Then why did you ask to see me, Sir?” It wasn’t every day the head of the ROTC requested a private meeting with him, and Ian had been buzzing with nerves since he got the message at lunch.

“I have been aware of your aspirations for quite some time, son.” He cleared his throat, threading his fingers together as he leaned towards Ian across the heavy, ornate wooden desk. “I understand your desire is to be an acting physical trainer to the cadets, correct?” Ian nodded stiffly, brow furrowed in confusion. “Obviously your history is a little...checkered, but I appreciate that your more, shall we say, _erratic_ choices before you came to work for us, were due to an undiagnosed medical condition.” Ian pulled uncomfortably at the tight collar of his ROTC uniform.

“Yes, Sir. I regret my actions, as we discussed when you first gave me the administrative position.” He sat up straighter in his chair and continued in a strong voice. “But I have been on a steady course of treatment for my Bi-polar diagnosis for over a year now. I have regular appointments with my doctor to monitor the…situation, and I am fully in control of all my faculties, I promise you. Sir.” He tacked on awkwardly, ending his outburst with a self-conscious shrug of his shoulders. “I can request a copy of my medical records to be faxed to you directly if necessary.”

“Ian, relax. This is not an interrogation. I, _we_ , here at the ROTC have no doubt of your stability. Your momentary indiscretion does not invalidate the solid 18 months of service you have provided to this facility, neither does it eradicate the years of dedication you completed here as a young cadet yourself. In fact,” He smiled, pausing. “I have spoken with Officer Daniels and he is willing, if you are interested, to take you under his wing as an apprentice.” Ian leaned forward in his chair in delighted shock, all pretense at formality lost in the surprise of the moment.

“What? You mean, I-” His commanding officer held up a stiff hand and Ian pulled back, wiping the grin off his face and forcing his face into a somber expression.

“Obviously you will be required to complete some formal educational requirements to become an official training officer, but,” He leaned back in his chair, smiling at the red head in front of him. “If you would like it- the position is yours.”

 

—————

 

“I can’t believe it!” Sarah squealed, throwing her arms around Ian’s neck in excitement. “It’s really true? They’re going to train you?” Ian pulled her off him, laughing.

“Yes. Crazy, right?” He grinned, throwing his backpack on to his shoulder as the two friends half ran, half skipped jubilantly out of the ROTC parking lot. “He even said they’re willing to fund the classes I need to take at Harold Washington.” Sarah pulled a face.

“You have to go back to community college?” He laughed at her expression, too exultant in the moment to be offended.

“It’s not that bad, you dork. They have night classes, and it’s only for a few months. I’ll train here in the day, then go to school at night.” They reached the intersection where they usually parted ways, and Sarah turned and clasped his hands tightly.

“Oh Ian, I’m so happy for you.” She said, smiling exuberantly into his face.

“Thanks.” He paused, “Hey, want to come over to my place? We can celebrate, I’ve got some beers in the fridge. We can order pizza, my treat.” She shook her head regretfully, pulling him in for a quick hug.

“I can’t, Adam is cooking me dinner tonight. Promised I’d be home by six.”

“Adam, cooking?” Ian tried to hide his disappointment. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Our nine month anniversary!” Sarah replied gleefully. “Can you believe it’s been nine months already?” Ian shook his head in genuine surprise. _Where had the time gone?_ “Me neither. It’ll probably just be spaghetti but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Right.” He agreed.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Officer Gallagher!” She shouted, saluting him playfully as she turned and bounded down the street in the opposite direction.

“This doesn’t make me an officer, you idiot!” He called after her laughing, affection in his voice.

His smile faded as he began his slow walk home, thoughts tumbling around his head. He was glad to have had good news to share with his friend for once; she was usually the force of positivity in their relationship. A relationship that meant so much to him- Sarah had become a good friend to him over the past year.

When he had come back from Indiana all those months ago, lost and broken, the thought of going to his family for help turning his stomach, she had taken him in with open arms. He had poured his heart out to her and she had been there, listening, keeping him on track with his meds, not judging him when he lashed out at her irrationally or spent hours lying on her narrow couch, tears running silently down his face. It had been a long road, and Sarah had walked with him every step of the way.

Ian pulled the chain of keys out of his pocket and fumbled with the lock to his apartment door, kicking it solidly in the bottom left corner where it always stuck in the colder months to get it open. And now she had Adam. _Good_. Adam was a decent guy and he really loved her. They had met through friends, had coffee, gone on a few dates, and that was it- they were a couple. Nice, simple, uncomplicated. _Normal_ , he scoffed to himself. Something he would never have. He was happy for her, _he_ _was_. He just wished he wasn’t so damn lonely.

He dropped his backpack on the floor of the living room which doubled as a bedroom; a studio apartment was all he could afford on his meager ROTC salary. His stomach rumbled noisily, and he wandered into the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal. _Dinner of champions_ , he smirked to himself, grabbing a beer from the fridge as he looked around the compact kitchen. It wasn’t much, but it was his.

Ian had returned from Indiana a shell of the man he had left. Mickey’s rejection had shaken him to his core, left him questioning everything, his deafening silence penetrating the very core of his being. It felt so different to any other conflict they had shared before; this time there was no Terry involved, no Svetlana, no outside, disapproving force trying to keep them apart.  It was just them. Mickey and Ian.  And Mickey had still walked away. He couldn’t get his head around it.

Mandy had run around for hours, frantically searching for her brother everywhere she could think of, but he had just sat silently in Mickey’s bedroom, holding the training book to his chest and trying to remember how to move. Eventually he had, slowly pulling himself up from the floor, gathering his belongings, and calling a cab to take him to the bus station. Mandy begged him to stay, to help with her search, but Ian just shook his head numbly. They wouldn’t find him. Mickey didn’t want to be found.

He had ridden the bus back to Chicago in silence, speaking in a strained voice only when necessary to buy his ticket, and to call Sarah when he arrived, stumbling onto her doorstep and into her arms without saying a word.

He didn’t remember much of the next few weeks. He knew that he had taken his meds, because Sarah handed them to him at each meal and he swallowed them dutifully, watching for her smile of approval before he slunk back into silence. He knew that he had dressed every day and gone to work, because Sarah laid out his clothes and walked him to the training center for every shift. And he knew that he was alive, because the fierce stab of loss penetrated every breath he took, reminding him that the kindness of death would have made the painful beat of his heart impossible.

Slowly, excrutiatingly slowly, the fog began to lift. He felt the warmth of the sun’s rays on his skin and the splash of the rain on his face as he walked home at night from work. He heard the birds rustling in the trees and noticed squirrels chasing each other playfully in the park. It was like he was waking up from a long, troubled sleep, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he wanted to be conscious, at least not in this reality, this new world without Mickey.

Ian had called him sporadically in the months after his departure, leaving him message after message until his inbox was full. One day he had called and a recorded voice told him the number was no longer in service. He stopped calling after that, and took to writing letters instead. More often than not they were just angry notes, scribbled hastily on scraps of paper that he stored in an old shoe box under his bed along with his ROTC training book and the picture Mickey had left on his pillow. Gradually, even the flow of urgent diatribes had slowed, and although he never opened the box anymore, kept it deliberately hidden way out of sight behind old magazines and discarded clothes under his bed, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. It was the last proof of their story he had, his last hold on Mickey, however tenuous, and so it stayed.

When it had become apparent that Adam and Sarah were getting serious and needed their own space, Ian couldn’t face the thought of moving back in with his siblings. He was cordial with Fiona and Lip, easy as ever with Carl, who was now out of Juvie, Debbie, and Liam, and even joined them for dinner once a week to catch up on their news. But the thought of going back there, living in the room where he had slept with Mickey, held Mickey, _been_ with Mickey, was nauseating. The hundreds of memories the house held for Ian outside of their relationship had faded, and all he remembered each time he stepped through the door was loss.

So he had saved his money, cutting every corner he could, for a deposit on this place. _Home_ , he thought wryly, looking around the tiny apartment. If he stood in the middle of the room and held out his arms he could probably almost touch the opposing walls with his fingertips. It didn’t matter. He finally had a place that was just his, free from the crushing burden of memories that every other place of significance in his life held. Here, he was okay.  Here, he could remember who he was.

Ian was just settling into the couch and flicking on the television when there was a knock at the door.

 _Sarah_? She and Adam were the only ones who visited him here, but it was out of character for them to just show up without calling first. _Strange_ , he frowned to himself, _maybe they had a fight_.

He placed his bowl of cereal on the coffee table and hoisted himself up from the sofa, heading to the front door.

“Hold on!” He called, as he pulled the chain off the latch, sliding the deadbolt open, and wrenching on the stiff handle. “I’m com-“ His voice died in his throat as he took in the shaking figure huddled in front of him.

“Mandy?"

 "Ian, I...I need your help."

 

 

-


	22. Fuck U-Up

**One year, 8 months, 1 week**

 

“Hurry the fuck up, Mickey, your four o' clock’s waiting.” Mickey flicked his cigarette butt into the alley and turned to head back into the shop.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Relax.” Max turned to glare at him, the exasperated raise of her eyebrows undermining the disapproving frown.

“Fucking cancer sticks. They’ll kill you one day.” She rasped as he squeezed past her ample bosom, winking at her playfully.

“Oh yeah? And how long is it since you quit this time?” Max huffed haughtily, then dropped her shoulders.

“Three hours and fifty four miserable fucking minutes. But that cover-up damn near did me in. Give me a smoke, I’ll quit again tomorrow.” He tossed her his packet of cigarettes and rinsed his hands in the office sink as she headed outside, muttering to herself. "Fucking rainbow to cover up a dragon. What the hell do these people think I am, a miracle worker?”

“You’re the best, you miserable old coot. That’s why they fucking come to you and you know it.” He laughed as he headed into the shop to meet his next appointment.

Mickey had been working at the tattoo parlor for eleven months, and as much as it killed him to admit it, he loved it. He had stumbled upon Max’s Designs shortly after he landed in Maine, when he was still trying to wipe away all vestiges of his former life. First thing to go, he decided; his ‘Fuck U-Up’ tattoos, self-inked on his fingers a lifetime ago, a constant reminder of the asshole he used to be.

Max had looked up grumpily from her desk at the ringing of the bell over the door as he entered, cigarette dangling from her pursed lips, forehead creased in an unwelcoming glare. Her wrinkled arms and neck were covered in intricate designs, weaving in and out of each other in a startling array of colors.

“What the fuck do you want?” Mickey had raised his eyebrows at the greeting, smirking involuntarily at the balls on this dude. He cracked his knuckles automatically, and it was only when the bulky figure had stood in response that he had realized he was actually a she, her chest protruding several inches over the edge of the desk.

“What the fuck you think I want?” He stammered, momentarily taken aback. “This is a tattoo joint, right?” She hummed in annoyance, and edged around the tight corner, as he held up his hands to show her his fingers. “Can you do anything about this shit?” She examined his hands closely.

“Shit is right. You do this yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell.” She shook her head dismissively, waving his hands away. “Fucking amateurs.” She turned and headed back to the perch at her desk, resuming her slow flick through the magazine in front of her. Mickey stared at her, eyebrows raised.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Can you do anything about these or not?” Max raised her head to look at him, her wild black hair threaded with grey around her face.

“Honey, I can do something about everything. I’m a fucking magician with a needle and ink.” She replied dryly.

“Sooo?” Mickey repeated slowly, his patience wearing thin as he licked his lips in irritation. “Are you gonna show me a fucking magic trick or not, David Copperfield?” Max leaned back in her chair, stubbing out her cigarette thoughtfully.

“Not.” She rasped, coughing thickly and reaching for a glass next to her. She hacked at the wrong moment and jerked forward, knocking the drink over and spilling it’s contents all over the desk. “Shit.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Mickey muttered, bending over to pick up the glass, and shaking off the excess liquid from the magazine as Max watched him, head cocked to one side.

“What do you want to cover them up for, anyway? Other than the fact that they look like shit.” Mickey turned to glare at her, banging the glass down noisily on the counter.

“Time for a change.” He bit out tersely as he wiped his hands on his jeans.

“You’re not from around here, are you kid?”

“No.” He bent over to pick up his backpack from the floor, and turned to head out of the shop. "And I’m not a fucking kid."

“Wait, wait.” Max wheezed, standing again slowly and coming back around the desk, eyeing him appraisingly. “I have a proposition for you. My assistant, useless piece of shit he was, up and quit this morning. Asshole. It seems I have an opening. You interested? Basic stuff. Cleaning up the shop, helping the idiot customers who can’t make up their minds choose their ink, making my drinks, sterilizing the equipment, shit like that.” She rasped, lighting another cigarette.

Mickey paused at the door, taking in the small, cluttered tattoo parlor, every inch of wall covered with hand-sketched designs, pictures of completed work, and magazine cutouts of tattooed models.

“You don’t even fucking know me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey, I’m Max, pleased to fucking meet you. Now we know each other. Does that make you feel better?” Mickey squinted at her through the haze of cigarette smoke, trying to get a read on her. He couldn’t figure out if she was the most amazing woman he had ever met, or the biggest asshole. Probably a mixture of both. She shrugged her shoulders at his silence. “Whatever kid, make up your mind. Go, stay, doesn’t make a difference to me.” She settled heavily back into her chair, the stool creaking ominously under her weight.

Mickey paused for a minute. What were his other options? His meager funds were running miserably low, drained by the nightly hostel fees and general cost of existence. Even the odd shifts he had picked up at the diner downtown so he could feed on the scraps and leftovers were barely keeping him afloat.

“Okay.” He had said finally, dropping his backpack down on the dusty floor. “You got yourself a fucking deal.”

He walked up to the customer now, a sunny blonde with pearly white teeth and shiny blue eyes. He hid a smirk at the bizarre placement of this all-American teen in the midst of Max’s den of iniquity. No matter how many times he saw it, it never failed to amaze him.

Max hadn’t been exaggerating when she called herself a magician. People from miles away and all walks of life came wandering into her store, trying to get an appointment with the legendary dragon who was a fucking Picasso with a needle and bottle of ink. Her reputation as a bitch with an itch was as widespread as the praise for her skill set, but people put up with her less-than-sunny attitude because the other option, quite simply, was to get the fuck out.

Mickey and she bumped and crashed along together abrasively, cursing each other out on a hourly basis, often in front of the customers, she threatening to fire him every five minutes and he threatening to quit. Somewhere along the way, their brash interactions had turned into affection, and when her tenant above the shop had been evicted after missing his third month of rent payments, Max had moved Mickey out of the hostel and in upstairs.

“You’ll pay me less than that asshole.” She instructed gruffly, as she watched him carry his stuff up the stairs after work one day. “I don’t need the fucking money. And besides, now I have you on fucking call whenever I need you.” She laughed roughly as she turned and walked away from him, Mickey staring at her departing back with quiet gratitude, as much for her lack of sentimentality as the break on the rent. For all her brazen coarseness, Max was kind to those she cared about, and it seemed Mickey had made the list.

She didn’t ask him for his back story, and he didn’t offer it, both of them accepting that his life had begun the day he walked through her door. And in a way, it had. For the first time in his life, Mickey had nothing to prove, and it was such a radical concept he couldn’t even begin to figure out what the fuck that meant for him. So he didn’t worry about it, and just let things fucking be. He cursed, he drank, he hung out with Max and her eclectic mix of buddies from the tattoo parlor. He laughed, and joked, and voluntarily re-painted the shop after listening to Max bitch and moan about the peeling walls one too many times. He found he loved tattoos, the art of taking nothing and making it something beautiful, leaving a mark on a stranger that they would carry for the rest of their fucking lives.

Day after day Max watched him study her, pausing as he swept and sterilized to stare transfixed as she bled ink into someone’s torso, drops of color forming dragons, and faces, and words, gradually calling him over to watch her, talking him through the process as she built design after design into the blank canvases of people’s skin. “You’re not going to get any fucking work done anyway, you lazy ass.” She mumbled grumpily. “May as well fucking learn something.” Mickey grinned, and watched, and learned.

He was the most free he had ever been in his life, other than in those quiet moments he had spent alone with Ian, lying curled tightly around each other. And although he missed him with every breath he expelled from his body, ached for him sometimes with a physical wrench that was almost _crippling_ , he knew that leaving had been the right thing to do.

Away from the repressive expectations of his past life, the abuse of his father, the history that echoed around every street of his old neighborhood and the people within it, he had finally been able to breathe. Be himself. He was still the shit-talking, aggressive, emotionally stunted asshole he had always been, he knew that. But he was more now, too. He was learning a skill, forging a path that he had never even been able to conceive of before, figuring out a future for himself beyond the next meal, the next paycheck. It was a revolutionary approach to life, and Mickey was quietly, astonishingly, happy.

He was leaning over Max's thick book of designs, their bible, trying to steer the rebellious teenage customer away from the harsher snake tattoo she was angling for and towards a more benign design that she wouldn’t regret quite so much once her turbulent years had passed her by, when the shop phone began ringing incessantly. He glanced up.

“Max! Phone!” He shouted towards the back alley, where Max had disappeared thirty minutes before. When there was no response he called again. “Max!”

“Get it your fucking self Mickey! I’ve got three hours worth of smokes to make up for here!” Her muffled voice yelled back, coughing with the effort.

“Shit, be right back.” He muttered, rolling his eyes and handing the girl the book. “Keep looking through here. There should be something you like in the last section.” He didn’t really care that much, beyond the fact that Max would curse him out in a year’s time when the girl came back looking for a cover up, and Max would have to come up with a creative way to turn a python into a fucking daisy or some shit. _Would serve her fucking right, though_ , he smirked to himself, amused, as he reached for the phone.

A second before his fingers gripped the handset, he paused, a cold panic washing over him. _What the fuck?_ His heart thudded in his chest, with a terrible sense of foreboding that he hadn’t felt in months. Something was wrong. _Don’t pick up the phone_ , a voice whispered inside of him.

“Mickey! Pick up the fucking phone already!” Max’s rasping voice jolted him out of his trance, and he reached for the handset, pulling it slowly up to his ear.

“Max’s Designs. This is Mickey.”

 

 

-


	23. It's Time

“Max’s Designs. This is Mickey.”

Ian crumpled back into the chair behind him as Mickey’s voice cut across the silent living room. He had been expecting it, waiting for the sound of the familiar rumble, and yet it still knocked the air out of his lungs with an audible whoosh.

Mandy turned at the sound, looking at him folded over on the couch, head between his knees. She clicked the phone off speaker, and pulled it to her ear, shaking her head as she walked as far away as she could in Ian’s compact apartment. Ian couldn’t even hear the tinny vibration of Mickey’s voice from this distance, let alone tell what he was saying. He missed the sound already.

“You’re a hard guy to find, Mickey.” Mickey said something in response, and Mandy started pacing in the small kitchen, fury and resentment brimming over in her voice. “Yes, that’s right, asswipe.” She drew in an angry breath. “Your fucking sister, remember me?”

Ian couldn’t blame her for the wave of emotion that cut through every word as she spoke to her brother for the first time in over a year. She had been distraught when she first discovered him gone, and the past week had been a rollercoaster, ever since he had opened his door to find Mandy standing on the other side, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Ian, I...I need your help.” He had felt panicked at first; he hadn’t seen Mandy since he left Indiana, and immediately the old, slow growth of pain, and fear, and _Mickey_ , started growing in the pit of his stomach. Her next words blindsided him. “It’s Terry...Dad…he's dead.”

 _Not Mickey._ He gathered her in his arms pulling her into his apartment, gently guiding her to the sofa as she rambled out the story. “I got a call…from the prison…they said he was fighting with another inmate…had a heart attack.” Ian’s heart broke for his friend as she cried in his arms, but felt no sadness for the loss of the asshole who had brought so much pain to those around them. He had been a pitiful excuse for a father, a human being, and Ian buzzed with the offending knowledge that he was glad he was gone.

“I’m sorry to just show up here like this…but I didn’t think you would see me if I called first.” Ian stroked her hair guiltily, thinking she was probably right. His new found peace was only just gaining ground, and he was fiercely protective of it. “I didn’t know where else to go. I went to the house…there’s nobody there. My brothers have probably been out getting high since it happened.” She scoffed angrily. “And I still don’t know where the fuck Mickey is. Have you heard from him?” She asked, raising her face from her hands to look at him hopefully. He shook his head dumbly, too disconcerted by the sound of the name he hadn’t heard in months to answer. “Of course not. Shit. Asshole.” She cursed, before promptly bursting back into tears.

Ian had calmed her, fed her, poured beer down her throat by the bottle, and taken notes as they formulated a game plan.

‘All the shit we have to do to take care of my asshole Dad’s funeral’, Mandy had scrawled at the top of the tear-mottled page, before scratching ‘1. GET FUCKING DRUNK’ underneath it, pressing the pen on to the paper so hard she had broken through the next two pages of the notepad.

“Okay, okay.” Ian had laughed gently, tugging the pen from her taut grip. “Why don’t I do the writing from now on, Shakespeare.”

“Fine.” She sang drunkenly, “but the next one has to be find my asshole of a brother.” Ian hovered over the paper as he tried to etch an ‘M’ next to the number two, his hand frozen above the notepad as if he had forgotten how to write. He couldn’t bring himself to write the word. ‘Find my asshole of a brother’ he scrawled dutifully instead, and Mandy laughed as she read it over his shoulder.

“Perfect. What’s next, Ian Gallagher?”

They had compiled the list, and spent the next five days completing it. Identify the body. _Gross_. Check. Notify the uncles. Check. Decide on burial or cremation. Check. On and on the list went, number two reverberating behind each of their movements. It had taken them almost a week, but they had found him, finally tracking him through old friends of Svetlana’s at the Rub and Tug, who linked them to her, happily shacked up with Yevgeny and Nika down in Florida.

“He send me money every month for baby.” Svetlana had said brusquely, when Ian had identified the reason for his call. “Return address on envelope say he is in Maine.” _Maine_? After getting the address it hadn’t taken them long to track down the number of the place listed on the correspondence, and now; here they were. Ian had tried to echo Mandy’s jubilation at their success, but a tremor had begun inside of him as soon as he realized how close they were to finding him.

 _He didn’t want you_ , a keening voice echoed inside his pounding heart as Mandy dialed the number, but he squashed it down. _This isn’t about you_ , he told himself tightly as the phone rang out, _Mandy needs him_. He tuned back into the conversation as Mandy gestured at him for a pen, scribbling down a series of digits.

“Fine.” She hung up the phone and turned to face him.

“He’s coming.”

 

—————

 

“You’re a hard guy to find, Mickey.”

Mandy’s voice cut across the hundreds of miles between them, and Mickey stumbled backwards in shock, running his fingers through his hair as he pulled the handset away from his face, looking at it, before pulling it back to his ear, as if checking this was really happening.

“Mandy?”

Mickey looked around as Max wandered back into the shop, looking quizzically from his white face to the phone in his hand.

“Yes, that’s right, asswipe. Your fucking sister, remember me?”

“M-Mandy- hold on a fucking second.” He covered the mouthpiece with the heel of his hand, only half listening to his sister’s garbled voice still talking down the line as he turned to Max, who was bustling back into the shop. “I’ve got to take this. Can you deal with her?” He nodded his head towards the shop, where the girl was still poring over the images of snakes. Max pursed her lips and huffed in annoyance, but complied, taking in his uneven tone, all color drained from his face.

“What?” He said choppily, turning his attention back to the phone.

“I said,” Mandy hesitated. “you have to come home. Dad…died.”

Mickey paused dumbly, trying to process the information as his sister jerkily pressed on with more details. Heart attack? _Somebody in the joint probably had enough of his shit, more like._

“What do you want me to do about it?” He finally snapped, the shock settling into anger. “He’s dead. Not much good I can do about that.” His sister was silent on the other end of the line, and he felt remorse for his sharp response. His Dad…the source of so much misery and pain in his life, was gone. Grief? He felt almost fucking euphoric. But it wasn’t Mandy’s fault.

“Sorry, Mand. I just, I don’t know what good it would do to come back.” His sister started sniffling on the other end of the line. She never fucking cried, was the toughest of them all. “Shit, Mandy, don’t fucking cry.”

“I can’t handle this on my fucking own, Mickey!” She snapped, covering her tears with a biting anger. “The funeral’s in two days, and then I have the whole fucking house to deal with. Dad’s dead, you're up in fucking _Maine_ of all places,” He winced at the resentment in her voice. “Iggy’s been off getting high since it happened, and who the fuck knows where-“

“Okay, okay, I got it.” Mickey interrupted her tirade, rubbing his hand tiredly over his eyes as he rested his forehead against the wall. “Shit.”

“I need you, Mickey.” She said quietly. He was silent for a minute. Mandy never showed any vulnerability, had never asked him for anything, and he couldn’t help but flash back to the dark days after Ian had told him to go, and she had opened her arms and her door to him without asking him a single question.

“Fine.” He uttered at last, heart pounding in his chest. “But it’s not for that fucking asshole. I’m glad he’s gone.”

“Thank you.” It was barely a whisper of a response.

“Here, take down my fucking cell.” He recited his number and he could hear her pen scratching on the paper as she copied it down. “I’ll let you know when my bus gets in.”

“Fine.” She said, voice strong again, and disconnected the call.

Mickey dropped the handset back into it’s cradle and slumped heavily on to the stool behind the desk. Max blustered up to him, eyeing him warily.

“She wants the fucking python.” She said gruffly, passing him the pack of smokes in her hand. “You okay?” He lifted his head dully, overwhelmed by the call, the news, the prospect of what lay ahead of him.

“I have to take off for a couple of days."


	24. 18 Hours

**One year, 8 months, 1 week, 2 days**

 

Shit, this was fucking weird as hell.

Mickey looked up from the beer he had been nursing in the corner of the crowded Alibi Room, scanning the unwelcome, familiar faces he hadn’t planned on ever seeing again. Iggy, his uncles, deadbeat drinking buddies of his dad's, all clamored around the pumps, taking full advantage of the open bar. His eyes caught a glimpse of red over the top of the swarming bodies, and he quickly dropped his gaze back down to his drink. Shit, shit, shit. _What am I doing here?_ He thought, rubbing his brow in frustration. _I don’t fucking belong here_.

It had been pretty easy to avoid Ian so far, although he had felt his presence with a piercing ache in his chest from the second he walked in 20 minutes ago, even before he looked up to see his tall, muscular frame, the pale, freckled skin, the fiery hair lighting him up like a beacon in the sea of grey and black. His familiar gait had pushed into the bar and stood scanning the room, before Mandy walked up to claim him with a hug. He had been facing away from Mickey, attention drawn by the brown haired girl at his side, and Mickey had taken the opportunity to slink back into the corner behind the pool table, grabbing an unattended beer from the bar as he slipped swiftly through the crowds. He wasn’t ready to deal with that headache yet.

He had been surprised at first, at the generous turnout to his Dad’s wake, or whatever the fuck this shit show was called. Then he remembered who he was dealing with- these assholes weren’t here for Terry, they were here for the free fucking booze. He couldn’t blame them; if it wasn’t for Mandy he wouldn’t be here either. He raised his eyes, skimming the room for his sister. There she was, over by the door, talking with some guy in a wheelchair Mickey didn’t recognize. Mandy. This was probably the stupidest thing he had ever done, but he couldn’t say no to her. It was right to come.

It had taken 18 hours- _18 fucking hours_!- to get from Maine to Chicago the day before. His ass was asleep and his legs numb by the time he had stumbled off the bus at ten, the sky black and dotted with stars. He had clicked into numbed action after he had hung up the phone with Mandy, turning to Max and uttering, “My Dad died.” by way of explanation when he told her he needed to take off.

“Shit.” She replied, frowning. “Well, that sucks balls, kid.” He smiled at the frank acknowledgment, lighting up the cigarette she offered.

“Not really.” He replied blandly on a puff of smoke. “He was an asshole.” He had gone upstairs and shoved some things into his backpack, pausing at the money in Max’s outstretched hand when he swung back into the shop on his way out.

“You’ll need it for bus fare, flowers, shit like that.” He shook his head.

“Fucking flowers?”

“Whatever, just fucking take it, kid.” He nodded slowly, cramming the money into his back pocket.

“Thanks.” The bell jingled over the door as he pushed his way out, Max calling after him in a gruff voice just before it slammed shut.

“You’ll be back. Right asshole?” He half-turned and nodded brusquely, a strained smile twisting his tense features as he paced down the street at the sound of her grumbling. “Good. I don’t want to have to sweep my own fucking floors again.” _I wish I didn’t have to go, Max._

He had moved swiftly to the bus station, buying his ticket, choosing his seat on autopilot. And then; then he had sat. For 18 fucking hours. Thoughts racing through his tired brain in a tumbling, disastrous, deafening tirade. His Dad, Ian, Mandy, Chicago, his Dad, funeral, fucking Ian;  _I’m not ready!_ By the time he got to Illinois he was an unadulterated mess, tense with apprehension at the possibility that fucking Gallagher would be standing at the station next to his sister.

He hadn’t been. Mickey didn’t know whether to laugh with relief or scream in frustration when he saw his sister standing, quietly alone, on the street outside.

“You came.” She muffled into his shoulder as he pulled her into him for a rough hug.

“Told you I fucking would.” He said tersely, taking in her pale face, her swollen eyes. Yes, he was right to come.

They had gone back to the house, shit it was fucking weird! Mandy jabbering on about the funeral, the house, the body. Cremation, they had decided. _They_? It was the right choice, who the hell would want to visit Terry’s fucking grave? He had talked her out of the meager service she had planned at the local church, calling and leaving a voicemail to cancel on the answering machine. Who would come, and what would they say, anyway? None of them particularly believed in religion, and it was just another layer of bullshit to add to the farce of a shit show they had going on already. The Alibi Room she had arranged for after the service was more than enough.

Mandy showed him the ashes, in a nondescript box sitting on the kitchen table, and it was only out of respect for his sister that he didn’t immediately go and dump them down the shitter.

“I thought we could scatter them at that park down on Fourth tomorrow. Remember he took us there once when we were kids?” Mickey didn’t, his only memories of his Dad laced with alcohol, and pummeling fists, but he looked at his sister’s hopeful face, muttering “whatever” as she smiled and passed him a beer. They hadn’t talked about Ian, or Mickey’s disappearance twelve months before, but Mandy filled him on her life in Indiana, proudly telling him she had been promoted to Assistant Manager at the store, and mentioning Sean only when Mickey asked.

“He’s graduating soon. And he’s-“ She paused. “He’s seeing someone new. Rebecca. I like her.”

“Her?” Mickey asked, with raised eyebrows. Mandy nodded.

“Her. I guess…” She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess he just-“

“Likes who he likes.” Mickey finished with a gruff smile. “Good, I’m glad.” He was. He wasn’t surprised that there was no pang of jealousy, no unease at the news. He was glad Sean had moved on, when the dust had settled felt guilt about his rash departure. Sean was a good guy.

He had avoided his room, sleeping on the couch and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he had passed through to use the bathroom. Too many memories buried in those four walls. Mandy had passed out next to him around three, and he must have fallen asleep at some point too, waking to the sound of her bustling around the kitchen at nine that morning.

And now they were here. _Shit_.

“I’d like to make a fucking speech.” The tapping of a glass brought him back to the present, and he looked up to see his uncle climbing drunkenly onto the pool table, beer in hand. “About my brother.” There were whoops from the crowd and Mickey rolled his eyes. _What a fucking joke._

He downed the rest of his beer and pushed past the guy standing next to him, another fucking stranger. He didn’t want to hear this. He edged out of the door behind the bar, reaching for his smokes as he stumbled into the dewy air outside. It was just starting to rain lightly, grey clouds rumbling overhead. _Fucking perfect_. He slumped down on to the concrete step and had just inhaled loudly when the door banged open behind him.

“I’ll be back in in a second, Mandy." He exhaled without turning around.

“It’s not Mandy.” The familiar voice said quietly, and he inclined his head slowly, meeting Ian’s steady gaze with his own.


	25. I Shouldn't Have Come Here

 

 “I’m sorry about your Dad.” Ian said steadily, walking around Mickey to stand facing him at the bottom of the steps.

“Really?” Mickey squinted up at him, pulling on his cigarette. Ian paused.

“No, not really.” They smiled at each other involuntarily, and Mickey looked away. “Feel bad for Mandy though. She’s taking it hard.”

“Yeah.” Mickey acknowledged gruffly, running his hand over the concrete next to him. Ian watched his bent head, breathing deeply. He couldn’t believe they were here.

“Maine, huh?” Mickey pursed his lips in response and took another drag of his cigarette.

“How’d you find me, anyway?”

“Svetlana.”

“Oh. Right. Shit.” They settled back into uneasy silence, Ian reaching down to grab the packet of smokes at Mickey’s side. He lit one, raising his eyes to find Mickey studying him intently.

“You look…different.” He muttered finally, wrinkling his nose.

“I am different. A year’s a long time, Mickey.” _Not long enough apparently._

He felt that old familiar tremor begin in his core, willing it to calm before the visible shaking evolved to his fingers. He had tried to prepare himself for this moment, thought through every possibility, trying to ready himself for the meeting he knew was inevitable. _Give him your condolences and move the fuck on_ , he had told himself roughly as he dressed that morning, but all his rationality had abandoned him at the sight of Mickey pushing through the crowds to make his way out of the bar. _Don’t go_! He had screamed inside his head with urgent desperation. “You're different, too.”

“Still working at the ROTC?” Mickey ignored his comment, mock saluting him with a sardonic smile as Ian grimaced at the teasing gesture.

“I just got promoted actually. They’re putting me through school.”

“No shit.” Mickey nodded his head slowly. “Con-fucking-grats.” Ian tilted his head.

“You?”

“Working at a tattoo joint. This old battle-ax is teaching me the ropes. Got my own place. It’s alright.”

“No shit.” Ian echoed. It was hard to imagine Mickey having a life he knew nothing about, but what did he expect? Like he’d said, a year was a long time. He looked around the alley as the rain picked up speed, splattering heavy drops on the ground around them.

“Fuck.” Mickey flicked the butt away and pushed himself up wearily, looking sideways at Ian through the downpour as he flicked his head back towards the bar. He cleared his throat. “I’m not going back in there."

“What?” Ian pushed the wet hair out of his eyes. “What do you-"

“Let’s go.” Mickey interrupted abruptly. He turned and started pacing through the alley, head down against the rain. Ian paused for a minute in surprise, then flicked his cigarette away and hurried after him, jacket huddled around his shoulders.

“Where are we going?” He questioned breathlessly, as Mickey stopped still and Ian almost crashed into him, stopping an inch away.

“Your place.” Mickey grunted, not looking at him directly. “Okay?” Ian licked his lips, unsure how to respond. _What the hell was happening?_

He tried to detach from the situation and think clearly, so hard to do with the all-encompassing cloud of Mickey fucking Milkovich blearing all common sense around him. _What was happening_? Oh, right. He was in a good place, finally, his life clicking into slots that made sense. He was happy, he reminded himself, and yet…this was Mickey. Life was good, but it wasn’t com-

“Fucking forget it.” Mickey muttered at his silence, and continued his swift pace down the alley. Ian’s heart picked up a ringing beat. There went that fucking rationale again.

“No, no! Wait -I” Ian sprinted after him, grabbing on to his arm without thinking as he tried to slow his path. They both paused, looking slowly down to where his fingers grasped Mickey’s jacket. He dropped his hand quickly. “I mean, sure. It’s just, I moved. I have my own place now too. It’s this way.” He nodded his head in the opposite direction and Mickey raised his eyes to look uncertainly at him.

“Yeah?” He asked quietly, his voice wavering for the first time as he halted his determined stride. Ian paused. There was so much more being asked in that question, they both knew it. Ian took a deep breath.

“Yes. Follow me.”

 

—————

 

_Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck?_

Mickey paced back and forth in Ian’s tiny living room, twisting his hands roughly around each other in agitation. He sat down heavily, then immediately bounced back up again with a nervous grimace, resuming his frantic striding. What the fuck had he been thinking?

One minute they had been sitting there, or standing in Ian’s case, having an innocent fucking conversation, and then he had been suggesting they go back to Ian’s place! What the fuck was wrong with him? It had been an impulse move, one brought on by a sudden wave of trepidation at the thought of going back inside to hear a bunch of drunken assholes wax lyrical about what a good guy his abusive, alcoholic, douchebag of a father was. It was a fucking joke, he was the biggest asshole of them all. _No more, no more_! He had panicked silently, and then out loud he was saying let’s go, and Ian was saying nothing, and then he was mortified, and then Ian was saying yes, and then- and then- they were alone.

He breathed deeply, trying to organize his chaotic thoughts.

When he blurted the idea out, he had been picturing them downing beers at the Gallagher house, surrounded by the constant wave of people that flowed relentlessly in and out of the door. He had pictured them getting drunk, him telling Ian that he was actually in a good place now, and perhaps them even getting some damn closure for the first time in their clusterfuck of a relationship. Maybe then, just maybe, Mickey would actually, really, _finally_ be able to leave Ian in the past where he belonged. Most of all, he rounded his thoughts back to the beginning, gritting his teeth; he had pictured it all in the familiar, uncharged atmosphere of the Gallagher kitchen, with the security of other people milling around them. He had not pictured this.

He dropped back down on to the couch trying to look casual as Ian came out of the bathroom drying his hands. They were alone in this tiny apartment, the square footage alone making it impossible for Mickey to gain the distance he would be comfortable with from Ian. _Fuckfuckfuck._

“Nice, uh..." Mickey’s voice came out in a strangled murmur, and he cleared his throat, cheeks flushing at the weakness of the sound.

“What?” Ian asked, head in the fridge as he reached for a couple of beers.

“Nice place.” Mickey said too loudly in the silent apartment, barking out the appraisal sharply to cover his discomfort. Ian rounded the sofa and passed Mickey a beer, scanning the living room for somewhere to sit. The couch was it, unless he chose the bed in the corner. Mickey didn’t know which was worse.

After a beat Ian settled into the couch a seat away from him, and Mickey shifted as far into the back corner away from him as he could.

“So…” Mickey stared at him mutely. _What the fuck was he supposed to say now_? “So this is fucking awkward, right?”

“Yeah.” Mickey agreed gruffly, popping open the can of beer and downing it in one gulp. Ian watched his Adam’s apple bobbing the liquid down, then followed suit.

“I, uh, I wanted to say,” He paused as he wiped his mouth, and Mickey looked at him warningly, licking his lips. _Be careful, Gallagher._ “Uh, thanks. I didn’t say it in Indiana. For coming to…see me when I was in the hospital.” Mickey nodded his head stiffly in acknowledgement. “And for…that guy. Shane. I heard he got the shit kicked out of him pretty bad. Was that you?” Mickey stared at him blandly, no hint of confirmation or denial in his expression. Ian wrinkled his forehead. “Well, uh thanks, anyway.” He trailed off dumbly at Mickey’s silence.

“You would have done the same thing.” Mickey muttered finally, raising his eyes defensively. “You said it yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“Besides,” Mickey said, stretching his arms above his head nonchalantly, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. “It was you.”

“Yeah.” Ian repeated, rubbing his forehead and not meeting Mickey’s eyes. He got it. _Why the fuck was he here_? He took the second beer from Ian’s outstretched hand, and shook his head at his own stupidity.

“I shouldn’t have fucking come here.” Ian didn’t say anything for a moment, looking at him fixedly.

“No.” He agreed, then; “Why did you?”

“I don’t know man.” Mickey sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “I seem to lose all fucking sense when it comes to you.” Ian nodded slowly.

“I get it.”

“I really am in a good place now, Ian.” He blurted out in a rush. "I like Maine. I like my work. I have a life that makes me not fucking miserable for the first time in a long fucking time. I’m free of all this…shit, you know? Fucking Chicago…the Southside...the people…you.” Ian blinked defensively at the admission, straightening his back off the sofa.

“I am too, Mickey!” He said tightly. “I like my life. I’m doing good. I didn’t ask you to fucking come here.” Mickey slumped back in his seat at the aggression in his voice.

“I fucking know, alright?” He said wearily. “I see it.” He looked at Ian. "I know you’re fucking better off..." _Without me._

“That’s not what I meant-“

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Mickey’s voice rose in agitation, and he leaned towards Ian, hands outstretched. “It’s the fucking truth. You and me, we don’t work Ian. We get together and we have these fucking explosions and we think they’re fucking worth it because it’s all we know, but then we leave a trail of fucking bodies in our wake and we have to start from ground fucking zero all over again.” Ian leaned away from him, and Mickey pulled his hands back to his side.

“I know.” Ian said dully, and Mickey let out a noisy breath.

“Let’s not do this again, okay? Let’s just recognize this unhealthy shit show for what it fucking is, for once in our fucking lives, and walk the fuck away without destroying each other in the process.” Ian leaned forward at his words, resting his head between his legs.

“Okay.” He mumbled, almost inaudibly, then straightened. He took a breath. “So, then, you should probably go.” The fire had gone out of his eyes as he looked at Mickey, resignation in his voice. Mickey nodded.

“Yeah.” He finished his beer and crumpled the can noisily, standing slowly. What he had said made sense, he knew it, heard the truth in his own words, and yet his feet felt like they were weighed down with lead as he edged past Ian around the couch. “I’m sorry, Ian, I-“

“No, you’re right.” _He was, he was_! And yet as his knee brushed Ian’s there was a spark of electricity which sizzled between them, immobilizing Mickey where he stood. _Move_ , he thought frantically, _move dammit_! He forced himself on and was reaching for the door when he heard Ian approach behind him. He felt the heat of the boy standing at his back envelope him like a cloak, even though they weren’t touching.

“Mickey.” Ian said thickly, and that was all it took. He leaned back into him, the tall muscular frame pressing firmly against his back, and he laid his hands on the door in front of him, pushing himself back further into Ian. _Too late_.

“This isn’t going to change anything.” He ground out.

“I know.” Ian breathed quietly into his neck, and the breeze lit a trail of fire across his skin as the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled in awareness.

“I’m serious.” He whispered. “I’m going back to fucking Maine. I’m going to walk away. For real this time.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Ian or himself.

“I know.” Ian repeated softly, gripping his arms and turning him around.

 

-


	26. The Border Of Madness

 

The second Mickey turned, Ian pulled him towards him, clamping his fingers around the back of his head in a crushing grip that would undoubtedly leave marks.

He couldn’t help it, he felt like he was free falling through the air and Mickey was the only tether stopping him from crashing to the ground. Their mouths fused together roughly in a frenzied battle, tongues snaking, coiling around each other, as they stumbled backwards away from the door, falling on to the bed in a tangle of searching hands and taut limbs. He had waited so long for this.

Mickey groaned, and Ian echoed the sound incoherently, yanking at his damp shirt, desperate to feel his skin pressed up against his own. He pulled it off Mickey roughly, choking back a victorious howl as the other boy reached up to tug it over his head. _Yes, yes, yes!_

Him, now. Mickey fumbled at his buttons, growling in frustration as his graceless fingers tried to open the impossible closings. He grunted, finally ripping the shirt down the front as he tore it off him, slamming back into Ian with a force that sent him crashing into the mattress. They crushed their lips back together, touching, grasping, grinding against each other as they battled, chest to chest, skin to skin, trying to take it all, _everything_ , all at once.

Ian was so hard it was painful, and he felt Mickey’s own arousal clamoring resolutely at his stomach as he reached down to palm him roughly through his jeans.  “Fuck.” Mickey ground out, reaching around for Ian in response.

Ian jolted violently at the touch; it was too much, _shit_ , it was too much, but not enough, and they tumbled around the bed as they wrenched at each other’s zippers, laughing manically at their frantic need. It was so surreal, and yet made perfect sense. They always made sense, together like this.

Finally, they were free, kicking off their pants as he shoved Mickey back on the bed and brought his mouth down to the wiry apex at his groin. He took him in his mouth, devouring him hungrily, as Mickey clasped his head, thrusting fiercely. “Ian…Ian…fuck.” Yes. He sucked harder, relentlessly teasing, tasting Mickey as the boy bucked beneath him. “Ian…I can’t, you have to fucking stop.”

Mickey pulled him up roughly, throwing him on to the bed as Mickey clambered on top of him, eyes wide and unfocused, reaching down blindly with his grasping fingers for the evidence of Ian’s own insistent need.

He found it, and pushed his way swiftly down Ian's torso, moving his mouth over him, Ian groaning in ecstatic pain as his teeth grazed the peak of his sensitivity. “Yes. Shit. Yes!” He ground out. _Fucking yes_. Mickey moved his mouth lower, deeper, and Ian's eyes rolled back in his skull as he bordered on madness at the feel of the brutal assault. He had never felt this with anyone else; something about the way Mickey touched him brought him to a place he couldn’t find alone, or with any of the nothing, no one’s he had used to seek it out in his absence. It was too fucking much, it was all too much. He had to stop or he wouldn’t make it out of this alive.

He pulled himself away and Mickey moaned in belligerent resentment, bringing his mouth up to meet his again in a ruthless invasion that left them both panting breathlessly. Ian shoved him on to his back and pushed a finger inside of him, two, three. Fuck. He was so fucking _ready_. His eyes met Mickey’s in a silent, frenzied question, and Mickey snarled his assent, opening his legs and lifting himself up to meet Ian, his features contorted with a keening desperation he was sure was reflected on his own face. _Only I can make you feel like this_ , he thought savagely as he paused, positioning himself, before pushing himself slowly inside Mickey.

They both froze at the tidal wave of sensation, fireworks exploding noisily in, on, around them both. Fire sizzled between them as the long-forgotten electricity ignited immediately inside their very cores, eviscerating any last dregs of coherent thought. Mickey whimpered at the assault, gripping his fingers bruisingly into Ian’s hips, and then he was moving beneath him, and Ian began a slow thrust, picking up speed quickly to answer Mickey’s desperate need with his own.

Ian pounded harder, faster, into him, grasping his chin firmly and forcing the turn of his head until their eyes locked. Ian groaned at the contact, taking in Mickey’s flushed cheeks, his wild eyes. _This is mine. You’re mine_ , he screamed silently, possessively, before reaching down to grip Mickey between them where he pressed hard against his stomach. The added friction made him want to roar in exultation, and they moved together forcibly, pushing, thrusting, grasping, perfectly in sync, lost in a haze of greed and lust as their bodies zapped with electricity and urgency.

“Ian…” Mickey groaned suddenly, desperately, and then there was heat, and wetness on his hand, on his stomach, and Ian felt his own desire explode violently inside Mickey in response, emptying, draining all of it, all of him, into the boy lying shuddering beneath him.

 

—————

 

Mickey lay quietly next to Ian, where they had fallen apart minutes, hours, days before; he didn’t fucking know. Time had lost all meaning in this bubble of arousal and heat that surrounded them.

Their feet and hands lay parallel on the bed, but they weren’t touching. The buzzing, invisible threads reverberating between them had them more connected than if they were lying entwined around each other.  They were both breathing heavily still, trying to slow their frantic hearts as the world came back into focus. Ian's eyes were closed, but Mickey knew he wasn’t asleep.

Every time it was a fucking surprise. Every. Damn. Time. Their chemistry was so fucking meteoric, he could swear the stars shifted position when they were together. He hadn’t forgotten, could never forget, no matter how hard he tried, but outside of their explosions it was hard to believe that the extremity of their connection could be real. _Feels fucking real now_ , he thought to himself gruffly, as he held his shaking hands above him, watching their involuntary tremors with detached amusement. Shit.

He focused again on his breathing, trying to calm the racing heart banging violently in his chest.  _Get yourself together, Mickey_.

After another minute he rolled over slowly, away from Ian, sliding carefully to the edge of the bed and reaching quietly for his clothes lying strewn around the room. He paused when he heard a shift in Ian’s breathing, turning his head to face him. Their eyes met, and he stilled for a moment. 

They spoke too fucking much, Mickey realized as he studied the green eyes flecked with hazel that bore into his own. They could say so much more with just one damn look.

Mickey dropped his gaze and turned back to his clothes, standing to pull his damp jeans up his legs. Fuck, he was stiff. Ached in the best possible way, in places he hadn’t felt since they were last together. He pulled his shirt over his head, taking a deep breath. It was time.

“Ian, I,“ His voice cracked, throat sore from the guttural moans it had released minutes before. He twisted his head to look at Ian. _That face_. Fuck. _Keep your shit together, you're almost there asshole_. “I hope you fucking know, I-“

“Mick.” Ian interrupted quietly, looking down at his hands where they lay against the mattress, where Mickey’s had been moments earlier.  "I know."

Mickey nodded silently, an aching acceptance in his pounding heart.  He turned slowly, deliberately, heading unsteadily out the door.

He didn’t look back.

 

 

-


	27. Stepping Stones

 

**One year, 8 months, 2 weeks**

 

Mickey’s final days in Chicago passed in a blur of packing and clearing out the shitty hole he had once called home.

_Time to sell_ , he and Mandy had decided, not that they figured they would get much for it. It was a falling down, ramshackle house stuffed to the brim with destructive memories, but they could have got five bucks for it and Mickey would have been happy. As long as it wasn’t theirs anymore.

They worked mostly in silence, his brothers nowhere to be found, throwing away ninety percent of the rotten furniture and burning the rest in a wild bonfire in the front yard as they got wasted on vodka and beer and danced around the flames like fucking maniacs. It was cathartic to see the last vestiges of his father go up in smoke.

His uncles took the guns, and a few other pieces from the house they claimed had sentimental value. _Monetary value more like_ , he had scoffed silently, but he hadn’t stopped them. He didn’t want any of it. The things they couldn’t burn they left out on the sidewalk at night; every last dish, fork, and electronic gone by morning.

Mickey threw most of his belongings on the smoking pile out front along with the furniture; he hadn’t needed them for the past year and a half, and all they did was remind him of a life he would soon be leaving far behind him for good. He didn’t even take the time to sort through the piles of crap he had accumulated throughout the first couple of decades of his life, simply grabbing armfuls of old magazines, papers, clothes and junk from his room and hauling it outside as quickly as he could. Mandy watched him silently, as she painstakingly made pile after pile of things to take back to Indiana with her, finally muttering an exhausted “Shit” on the third day, and shoving the tidy piles messily into a cardboard box, carrying it outside after her brother. He raised his eyebrows at her with a knowing smirk and she grimaced.

“I’m not carrying all this on the fucking greyhound like some homeless person.” She snapped at him. He abandoned the fire he had been stoking with an old crowbar, and came in to help her.

Mickey was constantly on alert, half expecting Ian to show up at any moment. He raised his head quickly at every bang of the door or creak of the floorboards, but he didn’t come, and Mickey didn’t know if that was a relief or the worst fucking thing in the world.

This goodbye had been different, he knew that. They had made the decision together, rationally, not out of spite or anger or fear. Most of the time he even knew why, and felt a detached resignation at the nauseating fucking _logic_ of it all. He…loved Ian, still not easy for him to admit after all this time, but they couldn’t circle each other in this hopeless tornado forever.

They had tried, time and time a-fucking-gain, and it never worked. _They_ never worked, not really. How much longer could they continue to destroy each other, dragging themselves down this pointless path which only ever led to more pain, more destruction? They were both better off apart, and this knowledge was as freeing as it was tragic. Not having the burden of Ian laying heavy on his heart after over six fucking years of that familiar weight was liberating, and yet he still looked up every time Mandy walked into the room just in case, kept his ear cocked when her phone rang, trying to determine if it was Ian on the other end of the line. His head knew, and understood; his heart, that rebellious fucker, was still playing catch up.

“I think that’s the last of it.” Mandy said in relief as she walked into the now empty living room on the last day. “Shit, it looks even worse in here now.” 

“Who would have thought that was fucking possible?” Mickey laughed gruffly. Mandy nudged him with her shoulder at his sarcastic response, grinning reluctantly. She was brighter now, better as they were reaching the end of this hellish week, the worst behind them. They had gone to the park together the day after the funeral as Mandy had wished, releasing their Dad’s ashes from the top of the climbing structure with an unceremonious “Fuck you” from Mickey, and a slightly more profound “'Bye Dad” from Mandy. The ashes had swirled momentarily in the air before falling in an ugly grey clump in the puddle underneath them, leftover proof of the rain the day before.

“Seems about right.” Mickey had muttered derisively, softening his expression when he saw the watery glaze in Mandy’s eyes. He had taken her home and gotten her drunk after that.

“I have to go and meet the realtor, give her the keys.” She said now, drawing her attention away from the bare walls and turning to face him. “Wanna come?”

“Nah, Mand, I can’t. Bus leaves in an hour and I’ve still got to pack my stuff.” She nodded, drawing him in for a rough hug.

“Take care of your fucking self, alright dickwad?”

“You too, asshole.” He watched her affectionately as she grabbed her bag and stomped noisily out of the house. He would miss her. Not likely they would be seeing each other anytime soon; he wouldn’t be making this bullshit trek down from Maine again until the next fucking emergency came up, and he couldn’t see Mandy voluntarily traipsing up to the middle of fucking nowhere for some quality sibling time. It wasn’t how the Milkovich family worked.

He lit a cigarette, wandering around the empty rooms musingly. He felt no attachment to these walls, only a ready desire to get the fuck out of them as soon as possible. The few sparks of joy they had contained were buried so far underneath all the layers of bullshit and violence they were barely distinguishable, and Mickey was glad to say goodbye to the house, and everything it represented.

He walked into his old bedroom, dropping his cigarette in a nearly empty bottle of water on the floor. This, _this_ was where the only joy had been. The months spent with Ian, holed up like a bizarre version of the Brady Bunch with Yevgeny, Svetlana and the various whores, his brothers absent as much as they were present, but Ian at the core. Waking up with him in the morning, eating breakfast across the table from him, saying goodbye as he left the house, knowing Ian would be there when he got back. The nights they lay curled around each other, Mickey grumbling about how fucking uncomfortable he was, or how hot he was with all the body heat pressed up against him, Ian laughing softly in the darkness, knowing he was full of shit.

And then the dark days, too. The days when Ian got sick, and Mickey would spend hour after frustrating hour, day after heart breaking day, trying to rouse him from his depression. The hours he wasted on his phone, trying to chase Ian down when he went awol, pacing these creaking floorboards in frantic desperation. The fear, the anger, the resentment, all stemming from the terrifying love he had for Ian, bottled up and exploding in this room. He ran his hand over a hole in the wall he had smashed in frustration after Ian had hurt him one time too many, remembering the feeling of devastation, but not able to claim it as his own.

It all seemed so trivial now. It hadn’t been, he knew that. But what at the time had felt like an all-encompassing, end of the world, desolating series of events, now felt like just another stepping stone in the winding path of their journey that had led them to here. The end.

He sighed and bent over, shoving the measly pile of clothes and belongings he had brought with him from Maine into his backpack. _Was that everything_?

He turned and scanned his empty bedroom, stopping still as he saw the familiar frame standing fixedly in the doorway. _Of course_.  He exhaled slowly, letting the bag in his hands fall to the floor.

“I knew you would fucking come.”

 

 

-


	28. Don't

 

“I’m not staying.” Ian shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet, clasping the small box he had brought from home tightly under his arm. It was his reason for being here; here in this house, here in this _room_ , the place that had hovered at the edges of his consciousness since he had last seen it so many lifetimes ago. _Stay focused, Ian._

“Me fucking niether. Bus leaves in-“ Mickey reached into his back pocket, pulling his cell out and glancing at the screen. “Shit. 45 minutes.” He kicked the bag at his feet. “Just packing my crap, then heading out.” Ian nodded slowly. _45 minutes_.

“Yeah, Mandy said. Back to Maine?”

“Back to Maine.” Mickey grimaced. “If I survive that fucking bus ride again. 18 hours man, no one needs that shit.” They smiled at each other hesitantly, dropping their eyes at the same time.

“So…”

“Yeah.” Ian licked his lips, looking around the bare room, taking in the blank walls, shadows of the countless posters Mickey had strewn up over every visible surface evident in the mismatched shades of paint, like eerie, empty picture frames, where the uncovered walls had been exposed to the air.

“This is fucking weird, Mick.” Mickey grimaced at the sound of his name coming from Ian’s lip. _Shit_ , slip of the tongue. He hurried on, trying to cover his mistake. _Don’t make this any harder_. “I mean, who knew this room was so big, without all your junk crammed in here.”

Mickey looked around the room and Ian used the brief distraction to study his face, etching the profile quickly into his memory. Not that it was necessary; he could describe every inch of his skin, each dark eyelash, the precise curve of his cheek, with his eyes closed.

“Funny,” Mickey murmured in response. “I was just thinking how fucking small it looked.” Ian hummed softly, a small smile darting across his face.

“What did you do with it?"  He asked Mickey curiously.

"With what?"

"The bed.” Ian said. Mickey looked up at him sharply, relaxing his shoulders with a grin when he saw the playful look on his face.

“Burned it. Mattress too. That was a mistake, cops came in two minutes flat. Thought we were sending out fucking smoke signals.” Ian laughed at the imagery. “They got used to it though- that fire burned for three days straight with all the shit we threw on there." Mickey extended a hand towards him. "You want?” Ian took the cigarette from him and lit it, inhaling deeply.

“They probably just missed you. Bet they've been bored shitless since you left town." He said, still smiling. "Was it Tony?” 

“Nah, man. One I hadn’t seen before. Must be new, I know every fucking cop on the Southside.” They lapsed back into silence, and Ian looked down at the floor, sliding his eyes back carefully to Mickey’s face.

“It’s a shame though.” He added suddenly, impulsively. "That it’s gone.”

“What?” Mickey exhaled on a cloud of smoke.

“The bed." He paused. "We made some good fucking memories on that bed.”

Ian didn’t know had what made him say it; maybe it was a final attempt to get Mickey to look at him, _really_ look at him, to feel their connection one more time before he left. _Would he never stop fighting for them_? Mickey didn’t reply, looking down as he scuffed the toe of his shoe on the corner of a protruding floorboard, and Ian sighed in resignation. Whatever he had been looking for, it wasn’t there.

“I gotta get going, man.” Mickey said finally, raising his head as he picked his bag off the floor and swung it over his shoulder.

 _Don’t_! Ian howled silently in immediate, burning response. _Don’t leave me, not again, not like this!_

He finally understood where Mickey had been coming from, all those years ago, when they had stood in this exact room, facing each other, separation looming dark and threateningly on the horizon, Ian leaving then. There had been a thousand words unsaid that day, there were a thousand more now. But he couldn’t ask him to stay, anymore than Mickey had, because although the circumstances had been different, the reality was the same; _I’m not reason enough for you to stay. It’s not our time._

“Wait!” He said urgently, as Mickey moved past him through the doorway. “Don’t-“ He couldn't believe he said it. Mickey froze in his tracks at the word, pulled back in time to the same day, the same devastation. Ian could see the conflict flit through his eyes as he looked back at him over his shoulder.

“Ian-“ He said warningly, holding up a hand to ward him off.

“No, no, it’s not that.” _It’s always going to be that_. He took a breath. “I, I have something for you. Something to take with you.” He held out the old shoebox in his hand, corners bent from months of use, taped shut unevenly with packaging tape. Mickey looked at him quizzically, then reached out slowly to take it from his shaking grip. Their fingers brushed at the exchange, and they paused, mid air, the box suspended in their hands, as heat and electricity burned thickly between them. Ian dropped his hand limply, his dull voice belaying the fiery battle warring between his heart and his head. “It’s yours. Some of your stuff...from before. I kept it. Didn’t want to throw it away.”

Mickey eyed the box warily, before shrugging the backpack off his shoulder stiffly and opening the zipper, shoving the box inside.

“Thanks.” He slipped his arm back through the strap.

“Be…happy, Mick.” Ian said quietly, willing the desperation that was churning his stomach and pounding his heart to lay dormant. Mickey stared at him for a full minute, silent and steady, his gaze so intent Ian felt like he was naked to the core at his scrutiny.

“You too.” He said gruffly, and then he was gone.


	29. You Ready?

 

**2 years, 7 months**

 

“So today’s the day, kid, you ready?” Max looked up from the desk as Mickey wandered through the shop, an oversized cardboard box in his hands. He added it to the sizable pile by the door, grunting as he straightened his back and it clicked back into place.

“Bit fucking late now now if I’m not.” He lit a smoke and handed one to Max, exhaling deeply. “I’m ready to be done with these fucking boxes.”

“Me too. Moving sucks. I’m tired as shit.” She stretched her arms widely over her head and Mickey laughed.

“Yeah, it must be so fucking hard for you to sit there watching me lug all your crap about.” Max raised her eyebrows at him, kicking the stool out next to her so he could sit.

“Screw you kid, I’m old. Gotta put those muscles of yours to use while you have them. Besides,” She leaned forward on the desk, looking around the empty tattoo parlor, at the boxes stacked neatly in the corner. “I’m the co-ordinator. The whatcha’ call it? The fucking foreman. You would have been running around with your head up your ass for the last two weeks if I hadn’t been keeping you focused.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled gruffly, and they settled into companionable silence, taking in the bare room.

The past few months had been a whirlwind for them both. Mickey had come back from Chicago, tired and wan, nodding mutely when Max had greeted him at the door upon his arrival with; “You look like shit, kid, you okay?” She patted him roughly on the back, the closest thing to a hug Max did, and he smiled faintly at her.

“Aw, Max. People will start to think you fucking missed me, you old bag.”

“Missed my floors being clean and my coffee being made for me, more like, you smartass.” She grumbled, walking away from him to hide the reluctant smile on her face.

He had thrown himself into work with a vengeance, getting up early, staying in the store late to put everything in order when the last customer had gone, paying meticulous attention to every design, every interaction Max had with her clients. She responded to his renewed vigor in kind, giving him more and more responsibility, tutoring him gruffly as she explained the different mixes of colors, the importance of needle selection, and the mind-blowing effects you could achieve with shadowing and framing, how the placement of each design would ripple and curve depending on the body part it was applied to.

Three months in she had turned to him, an appraising look in her eye.

“I think you’re ready kid. Let’s take care of that shit show on your knuckles.” He had looked down at the old, familiar, ‘Fuck U-Up’ on his fingers, bending and flexing the digits to watch the uneven letters move in the morning light. He frowned.

“I…changed my mind. I’m keeping them.” Max smiled quietly behind him, straightening her face into a grumpy scowl as he turned to look at her.

“Well, you’ve got to start somewhere. Guess it had better be on fucking me.”

“You serious?” Mickey’s eyes widened in shock, as much for the fact that he didn’t think she had a patch of skin left un-colored as for the opportunity to finally get his hands on her equipment.

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” She huffed as she settled into the chair, extending her forearm towards him. “But if it looks like shit I really will fuck you up.”

It hadn’t. The year of studying Max’s every move had paid off, and when he finished the lizard design she had chosen, snaking it around her wrist and coiling it up towards her face, she nodded approvingly.

“Not bad, kid.”

She had him practice more on regulars and out of towner’s as they trekked in and out of the shop, telling them they were offering a two-for-one special. Max would ink their main design and then Mickey would slide into place beside her, taking the equipment from her hands and adding a bird on their ankle, chinese lettering on their shoulder, stars, or hearts, or animals, or whatever the fuck they chose on a more discreet part of their body. His abilities grew along with his confidence, and eventually his reputation began to circulate among their clients as Max’s skilled apprentice, just as grumpy and obnoxious as the original maestro, but with his own flair for edgy, original designs.

They had been shutting up shop after a particularly busy Saturday when Max had turned to him, cigarette dangling loosely from her mouth.

“Time to make some changes kid.” Mickey had twisted his body around to her in surprise, an uneasy question in his eyes.

“What?” _What_?

“It seems you have a good fucking thing going here. We have more asshole customers than ever because of you, you little shit.” She paused. "We need a second chair.” Mickey stared at her, dumbfounded.

“A second chair?” He echoed, eyebrows raised.

“What are you, a fucking parrot? Yes, a second chair. One for the idiots who come in here asking for you.” Mickey rocked back on his heels, trying to process what she was saying.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We need a bigger shop, partner. And a new fucking assistant. You’ve been so damn busy you haven’t swept the floors in weeks.” Max leaned forward, eyes piercing into him intently. “I found a place down on Main Street. Twice as big as this. Assholes want a shitload more than it’s worth, but I’m sure I can talk them down.” She flexed her muscles menacingly, and Mickey laughed involuntarily. She glared at him. "Whaddaya say, kid? Want to go into business with me?” Mickey paused.

“We’ll have to do something about the name.” He said finally. Max pursed her lips in sardonic annoyance. “What? I think Milkovich Designs has a nice fucking ring to it.”

“Keep dreaming, kid.” She replied dryly.

They had signed the lease two days later, and put the original store on the market. Mickey had tried to offer her some of the measly funds he had got from the sale of his Dad’s place for the downpayment, but Max had waved the money away dismissively. “Keep it kid, I’ve got plenty of fucking money.”

The new shop didn’t have an apartment attached, so Mickey had begun half-heartedly looking around for a new place, stumbling onto a two bedroom condo with a grassy yard just outside of town the week before. It was more than he had been paying Max, but she had been charging him pennies so he wasn’t surprised. Besides, with his income from the shop increasing daily he could easily afford it.

“Did you pack all your shit upstairs?” She asked him now, stubbing out her cigarette and taking a noisy gulp of beer.

“Nah, some fucking backbreaker’s been having me work on all her crap down here.” Max rolled her eyes and waved him away.

“Better get a fucking move on. The truck’s gonna be here in a few hours.” Mickey stood, stretching loudly.

“Alright. You good finishing up down here?” She nodded. "Okay. Won't be long."

 

—————

 

Shit. There was more crap up here than he realized.

Mickey walked into his bedroom, empty boxes in hand, and surveyed the messy room. He had barely spent anytime here really, every spare minute since his return used up in the shop downstairs or out drinking with Max and their buddies from town. Still, every surface was cluttered with stuff; design books, clothes, toiletries scattered in a disorderly chaos around the small apartment. He grabbed a trash bag and started flinging junk in, tossing the items that would be coming with him haphazardly into the boxes on his bed. He would sort it out when he got to his new place.

He headed over to his closet, pulling clothes off the hangers and throwing them blindly behind him as he reached into the dark space. His hand bumped into something in the back corner, _what the fuck?_ , and he pulled it out, stilling momentarily when he realized what it was.

His backpack. The one he had used when he went home for his Dad’s funeral almost a year before. He had come back and thrown it carelessly in the back of the closet, not having the energy to sort through the items inside, just wanting to pretend the whole fucked up week had never happened. _I guess I forgot about it_ , he thought flippantly, hand tugging at the zipper as he peered inside. A couple of shirts, a half smoked pack of cigarettes, _oh good_ \- he lit one up, breathing deeply. A pair of pants he had been looking for, and…a box.

Fuck. He had forgotten about the box. He pulled it out stiffly, licking his lips as he remembered Ian’s face looking tentatively at him, hands outstretched, the box in his hands. _Ian_.

All of the memories of that day came tumbling back into his mind like dominoes falling in a row as he turned the box over in his hands, edging his thumb nail along the tightly bound packaging tape holding it closed. Turning to see Ian standing in the doorway, his face lit by the morning sun streaming through the un-curtained windows. His musical fucking laughter at something Mickey had said. The “Don’t” he had uttered when Mickey turned to leave. The irony had not been lost on him.

His gentle prying broke the seal, and he paused for a minute. I could just not open it, he thought distractedly, laying his tattooed fingers on the smooth surface of the box. “Some stuff of yours.” Ian had said. Maybe he should just chuck it, without even seeing what was inside. Throw it away without looking at it, as he had with the countless mounds of crap from his room back home. But…

He held the box over the trash bag at his feet, then slowly pulled it back to his chest as he sat heavily on the end of his bed. With a deep breath, Mickey flipped the off the lid of the box, staring at the contents inside.

 

-


	30. The Letters

 

Mickey frowned at the jumble of papers in front of him, picking up pieces by the handful and letting them sift gently through his fingers.

_What the fuck_? Ian had said it was full of his stuff, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t ever indicated that a box of old receipts and scrap paper was valuable to him. He scoffed at his idiotic hopefulness. _What the fuck did I think I was going to find_?

He rubbed his eyes and slammed the lid back on to the box, shoving it into the garbage bag. One of the scraps came loose and floated to the ground in front of him.

“Shit.” He muttered angrily, bending to pick it up. His eyes caught a darker, bolder print on the other side of the thin paper, and he turned it over in his hands. “What the fu-.”

 

> _I wish I’d never met you._

 

It was the briefest of missives, but it wasn’t the words that stalled him, it was the handwriting. _Ian’s_ handwriting.

He turned quickly back to the garbage bag beside him, grabbing the box, uttering a frustrated “Shit!” under his breath as the lid dislodged and the papers escaped from their hold, mixing in with the collection of trash he had been gathering moments before. He dug through frantically, grasping at anything he could find with Ian’s untidy scrawl on either side of it. 

 

> _We went to the Alibi tonight for Lip’s birthday. I missed you so fucking much, I wanted to smash every bottle I could find and scratch your name into the fucking bar with the broken glass so everyone who ever drank there would see your name in the wood and think of you._

 

_I fucking **hate** you Mickey._  

 

> **WHY THE FUCK WON’T YOU ANSWER MY CALLS? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?**

 

_How could you leave me?_

 

  

Mickey dropped to his knees beside the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. What the fuck was this? 

 

 

> _Work was **shit** today. I spent the whole morning calculating exactly how long it’s been since I last saw you. Three months, two weeks, five days. I was counting the hours too, but I lost track._
> 
> _Okay, I lied. 17 fucking hours Mickey. And 23 minutes._

 

_I can’t believe you came when I was in the hospital. No, scratch that. I can believe it. That’s what you do when you love somebody. LOVE Mickey. What the fuck is it about that word that's so hard for you to deal with?_  

 

> _Biggest mistake I ever fucking made = **breaking up with you**_

 

 

Mickey breathed unsteadily as he reached in the bag for more scraps. _There must be hundreds_ , he thought shakily. When were these from? 

 

> _I’m so fucking drunk tonight Mick. P I S S E D. Must’ve drunk most of a bottle vodka. Think I’m going to throw up. No. No._
> 
> _Yes. I just threw up._

 

_Remember that day Kash shot you? I was so fucking scared you were going to die. That’s when I realized I loved you for the first time. Bloody and wounded on the fucking floor. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?_   

 

> _I hate you so much. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone this much._

 

**_~~Mickey Mickey MICKEY miCKey mick~~ Mickey fucking Milkovich_**

 

> _I tried to fuck somebody tonight. Couldn’t keep it up. Kept seeing your stupid face. **Asshole**._

  

 

Mickey tore that one into minuscule shreds of paper until the writing was unrecognizable.  

 

 

> _Will I **never** be fucking rid of you?_

 

_Sometimes I think I understand why you left, then other times I think you’re just a fucking prick._  

 

> _Saw the family for dinner tonight. Debbie mentioned your name, don’t remember how you fucking came up. I had to leave the table so I didn’t vomit or start crying. **What the fuck have you done to me?**_

 

~~_I FUCKING LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT_~~

 

> _Today was a good day. Wish I could tell you about it, you selfish fuck._

 

_I went to the Kash and Grab to pick up some smokes- did you know they’ve turned it into a fucking 7-Eleven now? You wouldn’t recognize it._  

 

> _**If I could change one thing about the last time I saw you, it would be everything**._

  

 

“Enough.” Mickey snarled, smashing the paper into a ball and throwing it with all his strength towards the door. “Shit.” He had been so absorbed in his task he hadn’t heard Max heaving up the stairs to check on him, and the crumpled paper bounced off her leg as she round the corner. She took in the messy sight, Mickey, white-faced, kneeling on the floor surrounded by clothes, and shoes, and countless scraps of paper.

“What the fuck, kid?” She leaned down heavily, bending to retrieve the scrunched up ball that had hit her shin. She smoothed it out slowly, reading the words scrawled across the top and lifting her face slowly to look at him. She took a deep breath, and her heavily lined face tightened in comprehension.

“You know, kid, I never asked you for your history when you showed up here.” Max said to him in a quiet voice. Mickey looked at her dumbly, too lost in a fog of confusion to respond. Ian’s words swirled around his head in a chaotic tornado.

“Maybe I should have. But I figured you were running from something, and if a kid had to run all the way up here to the middle of fucking nowhere to get away he probably had a good reason to do it.” She paused, lighting a cigarette as Mickey watched her silently. “I assumed you’d tell me when you were good and fucking ready, but you never did.” She laughed to herself, tightly. “So now I’m going to tell you something, dumbass.”

She strode purposefully across the room, bending over to grip him by his shirt and pulling his face close to hers as she exhaled a mouthful of smoke.

“I may not look like much now, but I did once, kid. I was more than this. I _had_ more than this. I owned the fucking world Mickey, because I had somebody.” He rolled his eyes, turning his head, and she jerked him back to look at her roughly.

“Yeah, that’s right, _me_. I had the whole fucking universe at my fingertips because I loved somebody, and they loved me back.” She paused, urgency in her voice now. “You think I have a good life?” He nodded defensively. “My life’s fine. I work. All the fucking time. And I like it, so that’s okay. I have a decent roof over my head and more money than I know what to do with. I have buddies to drink with, and laugh with, and it’s all…fine. But that’s it. Fine is the best it’s ever gonna get for me.” She released his shirt and he rubbed the back of his neck where the material had pulled against his skin. “Listen to me, Mickey. _Listen_. I was too chicken shit to claim my own fucking happiness. Don’t make the same mistake as me, kid. Don’t settle for fucking _fine_.”

Max exhaled slowly, stepping back into the doorway and shaking her shoulders roughly to loosen the visible tension she held in her stiff form. She cleared her throat, and smiled gruffly at Mickey, still hunched over on the floor.

“Looks like you’ve still got some work to do up here, kid.” She said in a steady voice, as if the strained exchange of the past few minutes had never happened. “Hurry the fuck up. Movers will be here in an hour.”

 

-


	31. Enough

 

Mickey paced in tight circles around his small living room, the crumpled, white envelope clamped rigidly in his hands.

He was here in his new place. He should be happy, but he wasn't. Instead he was a fucking mess, fingers shaking and heart pounding loudly in his chest, as it had since the unearthing of the box and Max’s piercing words that morning. Max had dropped him off an hour ago, after they had unloaded the equipment at the new shop.

“Think about what I said.” She hissed to him, as he heaved the final box of his belongings off the now empty truck. She clambered into the driver's seat, calling loudly out the window to him as she drove away. “Be at the shop at nine tomorrow, kid! We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do!”

He had gone inside dragging the boxes in behind him, and planned to christen his new place with the six pack he had grabbed from the convenience store on the way there. But now he was actually here the spacious condo felt claustrophobic and the silence was deafening.

Ian’s notes and Max’s words tumbled around each other in his brain in an overwhelming cacophony of reawakened pain, shock, confusion, and fucking _hope_ \- that last one was the most agonizing of them all. “Don’t settle for fucking fine.” She had said. Don’t. There was that word again.

_It’s alright for her to say_ , Mickey thought bitterly. _That bitch has no fucking idea_. And yet his hand stayed firmly clamped around the envelope in his hand, grip unyielding as he desperately curled the edges of the thick paper around and around with his finger tips.

He had banged around his room above the shop in a tornado of activity after her departure earlier, gathering each scrap of paper he could find and shoving them aggressively into the garbage bag. When he had collected every last one the bag was so stuffed it wouldn’t close, and he had punched the shoe box inside furiously to flatten it down.

It was then he had seen the envelope, wedged carefully into the bottom of the nearly empty box. Longer than the container itself and jammed securely into the frame of the old shoe box, it had stayed in position when the other scraps had fallen free. The front was blank, apart from small, block lettering in the left-hand corner, spelling _Mickey_ in Ian’s familiar hand, neater and more deliberate than any of the other frantic scrawls.

His heart had pounded as he reached out with unsteady fingers and pulled it free. _I can’t do this now_ , he thought desperately, flexing the envelope back and forth in his hands. It was too much. But he couldn’t bring himself to toss it away with the other papers either, and so he had shoved it resolutely into his back pocket and out of his mind while he finished his packing.

But _now_ , now the motion and the move and the frenetic activity was finally done, and he was here alone in this quiet place, he was left with no more distractions. No more excuses.

He walked into his empty living room and kicked a box away from the wall, squatting down on it as a makeshift seat as he slowly tore the envelope open. He took a deep breath and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside with shaking fingers. 

 

 

> _Mickey_ -

 

It began;

 

> _I don’t know when you’ll read this, or if you’ll even fucking read this, but Mandy told me you’re leaving for Maine today, and there’s a million thoughts I have that I know I’ll never be able to say to your face._

 

 

“Shit." Mickey reached into his back pocket with trembling hands and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting a smoke clumsily as he read on. It was like he could hear Ian’s voice, saying the words aloud to him, here in the devastating silence of this desolate space. 

 

 

> _We’ve never been much fucking good at talking, have we Mick? Fighting, fucking, destroying the crap out of each other- we’re damn pros, but talking? Not so much._
> 
> _I’m coming to you today and giving you this box because I can’t keep it, and yet I can't seem to throw it away, pussy that I am. Even now, when you’ve made it clear as fucking day that you don’t want me, I can’t bring myself to throw this shit in the trash and walk away from you. Because here’s the deal Mickey- just like you said to me in the woods back in Indiana; it’s only ever been you._

 

 

Mickey swiped at his damp eyes angrily, shaking his head and bringing the paper closer to his face once his vision cleared enough to refocus on the letters in front of him.

 

 

> _We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. Your prick of a Dad, Svetlana, Yev, my family, you coming out, my diagnosis. Is it fucking weird to say that these years with you have been the best of my life, as well as the worst? Probably, shit. It doesn’t make sense, even I know that._
> 
> _But you always made sense to me, Mick. When everything else was going to shit, you were the one fucking thing that I always understood. Me and you, you know? That was always right, even when we were beating the crap out of each other or walking away._
> 
> _I get that you have a new life now up in Maine, and I’m glad. It feels like a kick to the chest knowing you won’t be with me, but I get it. There’s too much history in the South Side for you to get to where you need to be, and I’m staying. It’s right for me to stay, for now._
> 
> _But hear this Mickey fucking Milkovich, because I’m not going to say it again: **You are it for me. You will always be it for me.**_
> 
> _So whenever you read this letter, if you even read it at all, know that I will be waiting on your dumb ass to get into gear and pick up the fucking phone, or catch the bus, or send a damn carrier pigeon, and tell me you finally get it too._
> 
> _Because when you do, there’ll be no more fucking don’t’s for us, got it? Enough._
> 
>  
> 
> _Ian_

 

 

The paper slipped from his fingers as Mickey dropped his head into his hands.

 

 

-


	32. Solid Ground

 

**Chicago**

 

“You good to take this group, Gallagher?”

“Yes, Sir.” Ian saluted his supervisor, calling out to the group of kids hanging out against the far wall of the gym, slouched over the beams and stretched out on the floor.

“Cadets, outside!” They leapt up quickly, standing to attention, as Ian hid a smile. It had been several months since his promotion, and he had led these exercises a hundred times before with groups much larger than this, but he still never quite got over the damn _respect_ his voice commanded amongst the younger kids.

“It’s all about approach, Gallagher. You believe you damn well should be respected, they'll believe it too. These kids are like wolves- one sniff of fear and they’ll eat you alive.” His commanding officer had leaned across the desk on Ian’s first day in his new role, pounding his fist into the desk to exaggerate each word. _Okay then_.

Ian respected his boss, respected the system, and saw that it worked. He had listened to every word of advice he had been given over the past six months: by superior officers, tutors at school, Sarah, and his other friends… but mostly he went his own way. He liked the authority his new position afforded, but he also liked that the kids could approach him if they had a problem; maybe because he had sorely lacked any sort of male figure in his own life growing up, aside from Kev, and Fiona’s countless boyfriends. Few took him up on his open door policy, but few was better than none.

He didn’t mind. His life these days was not built solely around one area of focus and success, while the rest of it all went to shit. He had come to that realization fairly recently, after a night of heavy drinking with Sarah, Adam, and a group of their friends as they celebrated the couple’s engagement at a bar downtown.

“It’s like I felt I could only be good at one fucking thing at a time, you know?” He had slurred drunkenly into his friend’s ear, holding back her hair in the stall as Sarah threw up into the toilet. “I was good at ROTC, but everything else was shit. I was good at Mickey, and I lost sight of every fucking thing else. But I could be mediocre at a lot of shit! All at once!” He laughed at the honesty, no bitterness in his tone as he looked around himself in a daze at the comprehension. “A-fucking-mazing.”

“Ian,” Sarah groaned, from her hunched position over the bowl. “I’m glad you’re having this epiphany, but my hair is in the fucking toilet.”

“Oh! Shit! Sorry!” He gathered her hair in a fresh clump, pulling it out of the water gingerly and rubbing her back in reassurance.

This understanding of his former self had expanded with the new, more confident version of Ian that emerged a little more with each passing day. He made friends at school, acing his classes as he re-honed his body back to the toned, muscular days of pre-diagnosis. He kept on his meds and met with his doctor, albeit less frequently, as his need for weekly monitoring lessened and he slowly found the old Ian, in a more balanced fashion. Elements of his old self fused with the new, like the part of him who would pore over ROTC training manuals and procedures late into the night, just for the hell of it, because it made him happy.

Being with his friends made him happy, too, and after a while so did time with his family. Lip was away at school most of the time and Fiona was always working, but when they did get together it almost resembled the easy companionship of the old days. He had finally let go of the resentment he held towards them for their dishonesty. He got it, he did. Hadn’t he lied, the day he let Mickey leave Chicago the last time? Telling him the ‘don’t’ wasn’t what it so clearly fucking was? Sometimes you had to lie, for the people you loved.

Their motives were flawed but their love was real. Besides- at the end of it all, Mickey and Ian, and their togetherness or lack there of, always came back to…well, Mickey and him, no one else. It hadn’t been their time, he saw that now. Still wasn’t, he supposed. He would always love Mickey, because it wasn’t a choice that was his to make. How could he choose to stop breathing? How could he choose not to see the dark when you closed your eyes? He couldn’t. He didn’t want to, anyway.

He accepted the truth of his love for Mickey like he accepted the freckles on his shoulders and the red hair on his head. It was just a fact of life, as elemental as the sea and the sky above. The only difference now was that he wasn’t putting everything else on hold while he waited for…he didn’t know what, that was the point. He was just living his life, and he was doing it well.

Now, in his new life, he led the kids briskly out of the dim gymnasium and into the blinding sunlight, staggering backwards a little as his pupils adjusted to the bright shards of light which cut into his stream of consciousness like a knife. They headed towards the familiar obstacle course and Ian began to walk them through it, describing each challenge as he demonstrated the motion he was looking for. He skipped over the climbing walls easily, skirting smoothly under the cargo nets, and hoisting himself swiftly up the dangling ropes. He had been born to run this course, it was as natural to him as breathing. The cadets grouped around him eagerly as they muttered appreciatively at his skill.

“Then you will approach the-“

Ian trailed off in the middle of his sentence, his gaze wandering distractedly away from the group of kids as he lifted his head upwards, staring into the blinding sun until his vision blurred.

“Er...Officer Gallagher?”

Ian blinked down absently at the cadet standing next to him.

“Yes, Williams?” The boy shifted uncomfortably, looking at him with awkward hesitation.

“You were saying something - giving us instructions? Sir.”

“Oh.” Ian looked around him at the expectant faces. “Oh…yes. Just run it…you know, give it your best shot. Cadets.” The trainees looked at each other warily, edging up to the beginning of the course one by one, looking to him for direction.

“Go on, get going!” He called half heartedly, face already turned back up towards the sun. The cadets shrugged their shoulders, and started running.

Ian stood deep in thought with his eyes closed, the outline of the sun burned on his retinas so he saw angry, red rings on the inside of his eyelids. He was good, life was good, but that didn’t change the fact that sometimes Mickey felt so close he could almost feel him in each breath he took. Those moments fueled the rest of his contented, ordinary days. _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_. It wasn’t painful, to feel him close. It was comforting, a reminder of who he was, where he had been.

He let the name rumble over him and through him as he focused on the rings, warmth spreading from the soles of his feet to his fingertips at the vision of Mickey’s face, framed by the fiery circles. _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_. It was like a surging current, pulling him out to sea. He used to try and fight it in the beginning, until he realized it was like swimming against the riptide, exhausting and fruitless. He didn’t fight it anymore. Nowadays, when the waves rolled in, he let the tide carry him out. He always came back to shore eventually. _Mickey, Mickey, Micke_ -

“Officer Gallagher?” A squeaking voice pulled him out of his reverie, and he opened his eyes to see one of the cadets panting by his side. “I did it.” _Wake up, Ian._ He scuffed the toe of his shoe lightly on the concrete beneath him and smiled at the boy standing next to him. Yep, back on solid ground. _Okay_.

“Good job, cadet.”

 

—————

 

**Maine**

 

Mickey sat on the hard, wooden floor, rocking back and forth as he stared blindly at the crumpled sheet of paper lying face down next to him.

He had re-read Ian’s words ten, twenty, thirty times, he didn’t fucking know. He didn’t need to see the familiar scrawl to know what they said anymore, the words etched on to his memory.

“Shit.” He muttered, voice hoarse from hours of silence. It was all true, every word. He knew that. Would never have said it, not now. He had tried once, in his own way, and Ian had told him to go. Milkovich’s didn’t make the same mistake twice. But…was he really a Milkovich? Is that how he defined himself? If being a Milkovich meant being like his father, he wasn’t. Not like his brothers, either. A little like Mandy. Mostly, he was just…Mickey.

For the longest time he hadn’t known what that meant. Then he had Ian, and he had based it around the first good thing in his life, revolving around him like he was the fucking sun, molding it to mean whatever he thought Ian needed it to mean. Then there was no Ian, no gravitational pull to anchor himself to, and he was lost. He had floated in the endless blackness of space without Ian for the longest time, crashing back to earth only when forced to, when he had seen Ian again, and the overwhelming urge to let himself be absorbed into that world again, when he was a person based entirely on someone else, had terrified him into leaving.

Now- _now_ , what the fuck did it mean now? So much had changed; so much about him had changed, since he had first left Chicago almost three years before. Now to be him meant something else entirely.

It meant strength and toughness, without the defensive ways of old. It meant purpose, and direction in his life for the first time. It meant quiet happiness, privacy, anonymity. No restrictive reputation beyond his gruff persona at the tattoo parlor to set his path in stone before he could even begin to think about where he would pave it for himself. It meant sparring exchanges with Max, each word of aggression exchanged threaded with underlying affection. It meant that it didn’t have to mean anything, this name of his, except what he chose it to be.

 _Ian_. Ian was it, there was no point denying it any longer. Who was he hiding the truth from at this point? He lit a cigarette and looked around the empty room. The only person he was hurting by pretending that wasn’t the truth was himself. But admitting it didn’t change anything, not really. It had always been there, the rumbling undercurrent churning away behind every thought, choice, and action he took. Admitting it didn’t change the fact that he had so much to fucking lose, _so much_ , if he made the choice to turn to a life with Ian again.

What if Ian didn't want him anymore anyway? _Shit_. The possibility hit him like a ton of bricks. He had written the letter, written the truth more honestly than Mickey had ever been able to process it even in his own head, but...that was months ago. They were both changing, the world around them had forced them to grow and evolve, with every second that they were apart. What if he had finally, truly, given up? It was that prospect which brought him back full circle. If he was going to to do this, _he_ was going to have to do it. That's what Ian had really been saying. Ian wasn't going to chase him anymore.

Loss was possible, yes. Such a real possibility, and a terrifying prospect. But what about the gain? If Ian was the sun, the whole fucking world was in darkness when he was gone. He was happy, finally, but he missed the dazzling rays of light, the blinding moments of brilliance when his heart pounded with joy and unguarded satisfaction that _yes_ , this was right, and _yes_...he was home.

Could he have them both? This new world where he defined himself for himself, and yet had the only love he had ever known too, without one destroying the other? He doubted it. How could that world exist? A world where he was him, the real Mickey, on his fucking way to somewhere instead of nowhere, and Ian by his side. Could they really do it? Live a life without the fucking don’t’s?

He dropped his head between his knees as his cigarette burned to ash untouched in the ashtray beside him. He didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know.

But he had to try.

 

—————

 

**Chicago**

 

Ian swung the door shut behind him as he entered his apartment, dropping his backpack on the floor and shrugging off his jacket.

He wandered over to the window, looking out and smiling distractedly at the kids playing kickball in the late afternoon sun on the street below. He had been one of them, once. Innocent, careless, their whole lives laid out before them. He wouldn’t go back though, wouldn’t turn his back on the years of anguish and pain he had faced to be free of the memories, because that choice would mean sacrificing the joy, too, and that wasn’t a price he would ever be willing to pay.

A faint buzzing lifted his head slowly, and he turned to face his discarded coat across the room.

_Buzzzz._

He stepped forward, running his fingers through his hair.

 _Buzzzz_.

Another step, this one a little quicker, a faint smile quirking the edges of his mouth. He was ready.

 _Buzzzz_.

He reached his jacket and slipped his hand into the pocket, sliding the vibrating phone out into the palm of his hand.

 _Buzzzz_.

He didn’t look at the display. He knew he wouldn’t recognize the number.

 _Buzzz_.

He pulled the phone gently up to his ear, pressing ‘answer’ with steady resolution.

 _Silence_.

Then, finally-

“A fucking carrier pigeon?”

Mickey’s choked voice came down the line, and Ian felt his heart beating, swelling in his chest at the sound, lungs filling deeply with air, blood coursing through his veins. _Finally_. His eyes swam and he clenched the phone tightly to the side of his head.

“Took you long enough.”

 

 

-


	33. Home.

 

**Epilogue**

**Six months later**

 

Mickey strode quickly towards the bus station, checking his watch every third step. _15 minutes_.

He would be early, but 15 minutes was no time to wait at all. He felt like he had been waiting for this moment his whole fucking life.

_Ian, Ian, Ian_ , his heart drummed his chest, a familiar rhythm now, one that used to bring him so much pain. Not anymore. Now it reminded him he was alive, it reminded him it had a reason to keep beating.

When he had finally picked up the phone and dialed Ian’s number all those months before, he had done it with a slow certainty that had begun creeping at the edges of his finally healed heart the second he opened the letter, and continued to grow with each passing second. It had grown in the hours he had spent hunched up on the floor in his empty condo, grown as he agonized over the words, their meaning, _his_ meaning. It had grown until finally it broke down the floodgates, rushing through his veins, and pumping through his body with a frenetic exhilaration that was overwhelming. Any remaining drops of fear dissipated the second he heard Ian’s voice on the other end, and he knew- he _fucking knew_ \- that this was right.

They had talked, laughed, and argued, more openly than they had ever done before; teasing each other through the phone line with a delighted exuberance born from years of frustrated hurt and disconnection. It was such a relief, so fucking _freeing_ , to talk; to be themselves in a place neither of them had ever really been able to leave- this world they created together. Exactly the same, the reverberations of love flowing fluently between them, only so very different now, too, because of the new people they had become in their years of separation.

Mickey had fallen asleep after several hours, phone still clutched to his ear, waking to the sound of Ian’s light snoring down the line.

“What fucking time is it?” He had asked sleepily, rubbing his fingers over his eyes. Ian had stirred at the question, his breathing quickening as he mumbled a drowsy response.

“Zero hundred hours.”

“What?” Mickey had frowned at the phone in confusion.

“Zero hundred hours. Time to start the clock again, Mickey. It’s a new day.”

That call had been the first of hundreds. They had spoken everyday, multiple times, checking in and catching up. Painting each other pictures of their worlds so vivid, they felt like they lived in them together. It was a new experience for them, just talking without the physical distraction of each other’s presence, and they stumbled through it one conversation at a time. Mickey told Ian about his condo, his work, the customers, his designs, Max’s caustic humor, and Maine. In turn, Ian told him about his siblings, Sarah and their group of friends, school, then graduation, and his blossoming career as a now qualified trainer at the ROTC.

They fought, about the past. Biting at each other when old resentments bubbled to the surface, and Mickey would curse him out, or Ian would hang up, or they would yell like the old days. Then, just as quickly, the storm would pass. The angry fire would be extinguished by the drowning silence and all-consuming dullness they felt with the absence of one another, and Mickey would call, or Ian would text, and they would find their way back to each other again.

“I’m sorry, Mick.” Ian would mutter.

“The fuck you think I care?” Mickey always grumbled in relieved response. Or even harder, Mickey would reach out first, stumbling over his words as he tried to regain his footing in this new, more balanced communication they were fighting so hard for.

“I didn’t mean to be a dick.” Was the closest he could come to an apology, but Ian would understand the meaning behind the words, and laugh in reply.

“You just can’t help it, eh Mick?” He would tease, and Mickey would gratefully bring them back to solid ground with a mumbled ‘fuck you’, grumpy relief in his voice.

It wasn’t easy, had never been easy for them. They were so different in so many ways; sometimes it felt like rejection, denial, and the dystopian love they had shared all these years was their only common ground. The days when this feeling prevailed were the hardest, and they would skip calls, or be curt and brief in their conversations. Sometimes the memory of the colossal pain they had both experienced at their separation was the only fragile string holding them together. It was barely enough, but it was enough. They would reach out, and battle their way through painful ground slowly; Ian’s ending of their relationship, Mickey’s departure for Indiana, then Maine, Sean, even as far back as his marriage to Svetlana, and the day of the wedding which still held a sting in Ian’s heart.

Ian understood, had understood a long time ago, but comprehension didn’t dull the feeling of betrayal for either of them, for their many injuries. Both found it hard to talk, and the conversations grew strained before they got better, Ian looking for answers and active reassurances of love which Mickey struggled to give, even now. Many of his past mistakes had been based on fear, and it was hard for him to acknowledge that side of himself. Sometimes Ian would press him for the words he needed to hear, sometimes Mickey’s stuttered attempts at explanations were enough.

Ian fumblingly tried to explain his diagnosis and life with his bipolar disorder at great pain to himself, even when Mickey would shush him with; “You don’t have to fucking do this. I get it.” Ian knew he didn’t get it, not really. Mickey knew what he had read, what he had researched or been told when they first received the news, but he didn’t know what that reality translated into for Ian, and how it would affect Mickey's own life when they merged their paths together again. Ian pushed on, excruciating as it was, wanting there to be no surprises for either of them when they finally reunited. They slowly moved past each hurt with the growing comprehension that their newly woven ties to each other were far stronger and cleaner than any painful, archaic memories of the past.

There were good times, too, so many. They would watch movies together down the line, hitting ‘play’ at the exact same moment so they could share in responses and laugh at the jokes in unison. Save the best and brightest parts of their days to tell only each other, so their stories were fresh and original.

They talked late into the night, every night, trailing their hands over their own bodies impatiently as they described each touch, each bite, each caress they would deliver, if they were together in each other’s beds. Relived old memories of shared arousal; the baseball field, the woods, Ian’s cramped bed and the store room at the Kash and Grab, laughing softly as they brought each other to gratification with their urgent words and intricate descriptions of hunger.

Finally they started to grow together once more, like roots of a tree intertwining underground, weaving their lives together deep in the soil and building a strong foundation for this love they both so desperately wanted to succeed. They were on their way to good, and it was so fucking _right_ , that at the end of one of their late night calls, as they lay hundreds of miles apart on their beds in the afterglow of their pleasure, Mickey had taken a deep breath and broached the topic that had hovered at the edges of his consciousness since that first call.

"We've been apart long enough, don't you fucking think?"

"Yeah."

"I can't come back to fucking Chicago, Ian. There's nothing for me there other than you." Ian paused at his words.

“I know, Mick.” He said, before continuing in a rush. “I could get a transfer. There’s a school up in Maine with an ROTC department. I already spoke to my boss. He said he would give me a recommendation.”

“Yes.” Mickey said immediately. _Fucking yes_.

Mickey had thought about Chicago, thought about returning to the familiar streets that held so much negativity and opposition for him, and he had muttered an involuntary “Fuck you.” at the imagery. He wasn’t afraid, fuck that! He was just...done, with Chicago, for now. Would he go back if Ian had asked him to? Probably not, no. He wouldn’t have asked Ian to uproot if he hadn’t offered, but Ian coming here and Mickey going _back_ , were two very different things. Ian was important, but so was Mickey. This new understanding of who he was was still forming and cementing in place; he needed to finish putting together the pieces of the puzzle away from the outside expectations of who Mickey Milkovich was before he went back. He would eventually, he knew that, but on his own fucking terms. No more running from place to place because of someone or something else. He didn't know himself as well as Ian did to survive that, yet.

“It’s not going to be easy.” Ian said in response to Mickey’s affirmation.

“It never fucking is.”

“Are we really gonna do this, Mick?” He asked quietly.

“ **Yes**.”

They stumbled and fell daily, but there were no more _don’t’s_ in this new world they were building together.

And now he was here. _Shit_. Two minutes to go. He looked up at the information board churning out bus numbers above his head, looking for the gate number. 33. _How ironic_ , he snorted, thinking of the last gate 33 he had headed towards, on his way to Maine all those years ago. He turned down the hallway behind him, pacing briskly, an entirely different motivation pushing him forward now.

They had spent the past few months preparing for this moment, but it still felt so fucking unreal. Ian had told his family with minimal resistance on their part, aside from the inevitable cautionary warnings and reassuring promises that they got it, but would be here just in case. He had texted Mickey in the middle of his work day, his exultation translating brightly through his typed messages.

 

> **_Just told Lip and Fi._ **
> 
> _What did they say?_
> 
> **_Nothing worth repeating. I don’t care, Mick! This is fucking happening. If they don’t like it, it’s their problem. Call u tonight._ **

 

Mickey was glad it hadn’t caused another breakdown between the siblings, for Ian’s sake, not because he gave a fuck about the older Gallagher’s. He also, however, recognized their motivation in staying relatively passive at the news; Lip and Fiona knew better than to say anything further after the fiasco in the hospital, when they had almost lost Ian after he had found out about their deception. He was sure they weren’t happy about it, sure they had countless misgivings they doubtlessly discussed away from Ian's defiant ear. Sure, because he had received a call from Fiona the week before that he had yet to mention to Ian.

“So, it looks like you guys are actually doing this, huh?” Fiona had begun, without even bothering to greet him or identify herself. He knew who it was.

“Looks like.”

“You know we’re not fucking happy about this. If we could stop him, we would.”

“But you can’t.” Mickey responded levelly.

“Don’t fuck him around, Mickey. I’m serious. I’ll break your fucking kneecaps. I don’t care if you live in Maine or fucking Timbuktu.” She threatened, a harsh warning in her voice. Mickey laughed.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He replied evenly, amusement evident in his tone. “I couldn’t break your brother if I tried. What the fuck makes you think I'm the asshole with the power? If anyone’s in danger of getting fucking destroyed here, it’s me.” For once in her life Fiona was silent, before ending the call with an uneven:

“Kneecaps, Mickey. I fucking mean it.” She hung up after that.

Mickey had called Mandy briefly, to an uncharacteristic whoop of delight from his sister. He broke the news to Max a few weeks later on their way out of the bar after post-work drinks. She had stopped in her tracks, smiled at him gruffly, and punched him on his shoulder with a muttered;

"Gay, huh, kid?” Mickey breathed a quiet sigh of relief at those three words. Max didn’t care, was just glad he had come to his senses.

“Got a fucking problem with that?" He had retorted roughly, hiding a small smile as he rubbed his wounded shoulder and let her steer him back into the bar for celebratory drinks.

Planning the logistics of it had moved swiftly after that. Ian had put in for his transfer and, after a tense few weeks and nerve-wracking phone interviews, had called Mickey jubilantly, yelling "I got it!" so loudly, that the client Mickey had been tattooing a neck-anchoring flight of birds on to had almost jumped out of the chair. Max had had to bribe her with a shot of whiskey to settle her down again.

Ian slowly packed the things he wanted to take, selling the few items of value he had and giving the rest to his family as he prepared for his departure. He met with his doctor to discuss the move, and she put him in touch with a specialist she had gone to med school with, now living about a half hour away from Mickey just over the border in New Hampshire. He was nervous about transferring away from the doctor he had built such a solid relationship with, but he trusted her recommendation, trusted her when she validated his move, telling him any movement towards potential happiness was a positive one. _He could do this_ , she said. Ian knew she was right.

He emptied his small office at the ROTC, more of a closet really, and said bittersweet goodbyes to his friends. Sarah was the most difficult to leave, and she had spent day after day at his place with him, neatly unpacking, organizing, and re-packing the boxes he had been hurriedly shoving his belongings into.

“You really have to go?” She had cried softly, as they had stacked the last box up by the door. It wasn’t a real question, Sarah understood.

“I’ll miss you the most.” He had replied sincerely, pulling his friend into a tight hug.

“But you’ll come back for the wedding, right? I want you up there standing next to me at the altar, you dork.” She sniffled into his shoulder. Ian pulled back and looked straight into her eyes.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He promised. The tight hugs with his family at dinner the night before had been emotional, but she was his hardest goodbye.

Mickey had spent his free time, outside of work and hanging with Max, making room in his closet and the rest of the condo. It was easy to do as he gradually settled into the relatively large space. Anticipation made his every move buzz with motivation, even as he grumbled under his breath at the inconvenience of it all. They knew this was the easy part really, knew the road ahead would be rough for them, as they merged their lives and their new-found selves to fit around each other once more. But they also knew they had travelled as far as they could 1200 miles apart, and now it was time to start traveling this bumpy, worthwhile road together. If it didn’t work, it didn’t work, but they had to try.

Besides, Mickey didn’t really believe that failure for them was a possibility, because Ian didn't believe it. So much had changed between them, but Ian's certainty never faltered. On the days when panic would have him chain smoking cigarettes and aggressively flipping off strangers on the streets as he paced to work, he anchored his faith on Ian's strength and quiet belief that they made sense, even when nothing else did. They would figure it out, somehow, as long as they had each other.

Mickey stepped outside just as the coach was pulling in, and he saw a flash of red through the reflective windows of the bus. _Ian_. He bounced up and down on his heels impatiently, straining his head to look through the throngs of people disembarking. _Come on, come the fuck on_! And then, he was there.

Bounding through the crowds, backpack slung over his shoulder, his tall frame skirting around the maze of people, green eyes locked on Mickey’s. He skidded to a halt in front of him, a wide smirk plastered across his face, eyes shining.

“The fuck you look so happy about?” Mickey grunted, and then they were one.

Arms reached around each other, grabbing, grasping, touching; bodies pressing against one another. Their mouths came together in a desperate, joyful meeting that sucked the wind from their chests and banged their hearts fiercely together through their shirts. The noise and bustle of the station that surrounded them faded away as the winding threads looped around them once more, binding them together in the eye of the storm.

They pulled apart, finally, Ian laughing openly, Mickey with a gruff smile he tried ineffectively to suppress, as Ian leaned his forehead against Mickey’s own.

“Hey Mick.” He breathed buoyantly, hands gripping the arms at Mickey’s sides. Mickey grinned and rolled his eyes at the familiar greeting, taking the backpack from Ian's shoulders and pushing him forward.

“Come on, you ass.” He smiled, as he reached out to take Ian’s hand firmly in his own. “Let’s go fucking home."

 

 

 

 -

**The End.**

**-**


	34. *Update*

Hi Everybody!

I have missed you all and your crazy comments! It's been a very peaceful couple of weeks ;-)

I wanted to update you all on the sequel to ZHH we discussed...I am working on it, although I am a little disheartened by the no-more-Mickey-Milkovich news we received yesterday (not going to lie, I'm still in denial over here). I will try to get re-focused and see it through.

IN THE MEANTIME. There is a chapter...well, more of a glimpse, into the boys life together up in Maine that I have, and wasn't planning to post. It didn't really work out as I hoped, however I had a lovely message from [gallaghermilkovichfeels](http://gallaghermilkovichfeels.tumblr.com) this morning, as well nagging from the epic [DanaRenee101](http://danarenee101.tumblr.com), which persuaded me otherwise.

It is just a filler, until the sequel is ready (which will be structured like ZHH, cliffhangers and all...), which will hopefully be up in a week or two. But it gives you an idea of how Ian and Mickey are adjusting to their new life together, while we wait.

When I do get up and running again with the sequel, be prepared for more craziness. Sorry in advance...but now more than ever (if I can get my damn head back into the game) we need some Mickey and Ian in our life. This time you will have the added benefit of my lovely friend and beta [Kittleimp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp/pseuds/kittleimp) writing external side chapters to accompany the stories told in the sequel, which will expand on the universe beyond the main story. That way you are less likely to send your henchmen after me while you are waiting for the chapter updates ;-)

So, until The Theory Of Absolutes (spoiler alert, this is the sequel's title) is ready to crash into your Ao3's, please enjoy The Texts, which will be found under the Zero Hundred Hours series in my Ao3 at some point this weekend.

Thank you all so much! You remain the bestest ever.

Soph  
(aka- WeMightAswellBeStrangers...but let's be friends instead, k?)

 

P.S- Feel free to harass me [here](http://grandfestivalgalaxy.tumblr.com) if I don't post it quickly enough. 


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